Signs and Warnings
by lembas7
Summary: Evil comes in many forms. And it doesn't need to be believed in to exist. Stargate:SG1, Supernatural crossover
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Characters and premise of 'Supernatural' belong to Eric Kripke and his posse. The people and world of 'Stargate: SG-1' aren't mine either.

**A/N:** In the same 'verse as 'No Such Thing' and 'Still Free'. Set mid-season 4 in Stargate SG-1, which corresponds to mid-season 2 of Supernatural (I'm pushing SG-1 up to 2006 / 2007 in this timeline, rather than moving SPN back.)

**Summary:** Evil comes in many forms. And it doesn't need to be believed in to exist. Stargate:SG-1, Supernatural crossover

* * *

SIGNS AND WARNINGS

_Twelve, thirteen – good._ Daniel skimmed one hand over artifacts crated and labeled for transport back to the SGC._ Now where's –_

"And the amulet is the last of it. Here you go, Dr. Jackson."

"Thanks, Liz," Daniel returned the redheaded Private's smile, depositing the small box atop a stack of equipment. "That's everything?"

"Checked and double-checked. We're ready to head back out." Heaving a sigh, the SGC's resident specialist in antiquities and museum display swiped a sleeve over her sweating forehead. "S'hot out here."

Daniel adjusted the brim of his boonie, gazing out across the open, overgrown square that had once been a courtyard marked from the tread of hundreds of feet. _Mesoamerican roots, definitely, from the structure of the temple and surrounding architecture._ Though all the buildings were constructed from an unknown metal alloy and some sort of translucent equivalent Finley had jokingly named flexi-glass for its ability to bend, there was no mistaking the layout._ It's nearly identical to Machu Picchu._

_Except for the part where all the metal reflects the heat._

"P5M-K58, land of sweet sunshine." Major Tony Wexler, five foot nine of stern humor and whipcord muscle, tossed Daniel a grin as he reached for the mike on his shoulder, "John, Finley. You finished up in the temple?"

"Sweaty sunshine's more like it," Liz murmured under the crackle of the walkie-talkie.

Daniel grinned.

" – Stargate soon. Wexler out."

Liz leant against the crates, digging fingers into damp auburn strands. "We're headed out, sir?"

"Right on schedule," Tony agreed. Daniel watched as brown eyes flicked over the equipment, moving on to scan the open court; the week of surveying and picking over the empty city had been quiet, but Wexler never let his guard down. "Major Carter's eager to start playing."

"She's not the only one," Liz smirked. Daniel followed her nod back to Finley Lehmann, rounding the silvery corner of the main pyramid complex and gesturing broadly. The deep baritone was audible even from twenty yards away, but – _I can't quite . . ._

"What's he saying?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Cunningham," Tony grunted. Amusement played about his mouth, crinkling the skin at the corners of brown eyes as he checked his weapon once more. "Something about electromagnetic frequencies?"

"And electromagnetic radiation," Daniel added, remembering Sam's excited lecture. "The preliminary samples of the pyramid alloys show that they have been primarily engineered to withstand high exposure to ultraviolet and gamma rays."

"The flexi-glass too," a deep baritone broke in. Private Lehmann's teeth shone white against flushed skin; the Irishman's fair coloring had gathered sunburn more quickly than anyone else on SG-5.

"I guess they'd be worried about that, given how damn bright this place is," John grunted. Marine to the core, he adjusted the bill of his own cap and glared at the sun.

Daniel grimaced. _He had the long watch last shift._ With days thirty hours long and only nine of them spent in darkness, they'd kept to the SGC's time rather than that of P5M-K58. _So while it should come out to early morning local time, we're actually into the SGC's afternoon._

"Final check, Eason?"

"Clear, sir," John replied crisply, smile lurking about stern features, "except for the bugs."

_Bugs? _Daniel blinked. They'd run into their fair share of bio-hazards, local fauna and insect life included . . .

"Report," Tony snapped, mind already there.

"Nothin' big, sir, just a few little crawlies that got Eason's shorts in a twist," Finley snorted. The engineer-turned-metallurgist was scribbling notes into a waterproof notebook that he'd pulled from one pocket.

"No bites, and no hitchhikers," John clarified, shooting a death-glare at Finley.

Daniel powered up the FRED, pulling his pack on and cinching the straps. "That we know of," he added.

Wexley's eyes settled on his two fidgeting team-members. "Decontamination, as soon as we get back," he ordered. "Better safe than sorry."

_At that point, though, if we've brought anything back it'll already be in the SGC._ Daniel helped Liz heft one of the larger containers; all the while chewing the idea. Janet was right. They really needed to see if they could adjust some of the SGC's off-world measures to be more preventative.

"Right," Liz grunted, adjusting her hold and grabbing the small case holding the amulet she had been studying only an hour before.

"Eason, take point," Wexley hefted his P-90, motioning to the south-east. "Lehmann, you've got our six. C'mon, people, we got a wormhole to catch."

* * *

"_Hurry,_ Sam!"

Book, big. Sam ducked the flying tome and dodged the vase, scrambling along splintered planks. Painted glass shattered against the wall, raining shards down on him. _Where is it, where-the-hell did it –_

_Slam!_

Pain followed a half-second later; Sam shoved at the heavy armchair, squirming out from underneath. Ribs groaned a wounded protest as he panted. Across the room, Dean was having a little more luck batting flying objects away with . . . was that an _oar?_

"Sam!"

Panic was there – a thin undertone no one else would hear.

"M'okay, Dean," he wheezed. _Owww. . . _But nothing shifted when he did, no searing pain spiked his chest when he breathed. _Bruised. Not even cracked. Lucky._

_So move!_

Splinters scored searching fingers as he scrabbled across ragged floorboards. _C'mon, c'mon –_

Cool, smooth steel, out of place against the rust and dust of the dilapidated farmhouse.

_Gotcha!_

Something _crashed_ against the wall; Sam had a glimpse of his brother slamming a vase and two jars, in quick succession, away from his head. _Shovel, not oar._ Glass shards sprayed outward from the impacts, digging into the coat on the arm Dean brought up to protect his face. _Is that –_

Blood.

_Hell with this._

Hands strong and relaxed on the trigger, Sam swiveled the shotgun around to bear on the teenage boy glaring at him from halfway up the wall, where he'd been taking out his own rage on others for thirty years.

Then again, if Sam had been OD'd by someone he'd thought of as a friend, who did it just to steal his girl and then went on to have the perfect life – _Yeah, I'd be pretty pissed, too._

But Dean was _hurt._

_BLAM!_

Five books, a spoon and two cushions hit creaking boards with a _thud._

"Sam?"

He rolled to booted feet, wincing at the pull on protesting ribs. _Blood. Dean! _"You okay?"

"'M fine." Dean was dabbing at a cut drizzling blood through hair to coat one ear. "What took you so long?"

Sam ignored that; it was just Dean's way of saying _I'm okay, really._ Rotting wood creaked as he moved toward the basement stairs. "I think the cellar's got a dirt floor."

"Super," Dean muttered. His older brother beat him to the door, shotgun ready in one hand and shovel from the Impala's trunk in the other. Sam crept up on the side, hand inching toward the knob; yanked the door open quickly, letting Dean test the first rickety step.

_'70's, drugs, and local kids turning an abandoned farmhouse into a hippy-hole to have fun . . . _The place seemed to attract kids no matter the year; and the sudden injuries and rumors of hauntings through the local teenage community had been what had drawn Sam and Dean here in the first place.

Graffiti scrawled across a wall under the beam of his flashlight as Sam followed his brother deeper into the dark cellar.

"Sam. Get the EMF meter out."

His boots hit dirt, and Sam squinted through the darkness. _This place is huge . . ._ For an old farmhouse, he'd expected a small basement, maybe nothing more than a tiny root cellar. Instead, it stretched the length and breadth of the house. Sam untangled the headphones and stuck one in an ear, switching the homemade meter on. _Still can't believe he made this._

"Huh." For all the paranormal activity upstairs, the basement was surprisingly devoid of –

_Squee!_

Two red lights. Not much, but –

Sam crouched, bringing the EMF meter closer to the dirt. _Lights across the board._ He winced, pulling the headphone from his ear as the squeal increased in intensity and pitch. "Hey. Dean."

A solid presence at his side; black-booted toes just inside the circle of light his flashlight beamed down. "You got it?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"Sweet."

Sam took the shotgun as Dean's shovel bit into the dirt with a soft _thunk_. Holding the light, he rummaged with the other hand in the duffel he'd slung over his shoulder before they'd kicked the boarded-up door down. _Ammo, paper_ – probably the exorcisms he'd copied out of Dad's journal –_ ah._ A round canister of salt met his seeking fingertips, and he could feel the smooth plastic case of lighter fluid against the back of his hand. Hooking fingers around both, Sam pulled the items out.

_Clink._

Green-gold met his own, a frown on his older brother's face. "That's not even three feet down."

Scraping metal revealed several ribs and a bit of vertebra. Sam swallowed. "No wonder he was so pissed."

Dean grunted, uncovering bones and ragged scraps of cloth crusted with dirt. A few minutes' worth of work showed Sam that the boy hadn't even been laid out – just dumped into the hole, limbs flopping every which-way, and covered over. Decay hit his nostrils, strong with the scent of death. "Ugh."

Dean traded him shovel for salt, pouring white crystals liberally over bones browned with dirt and age. Lighter fluid squirted; matches flared against the basement's darkness. Sam gazed around the basement, saving his night-vision, as flames cast flickering shadows across the spidery space.

_Sad._

"What?"

Sam blinked; he hadn't thought he'd said that out loud. "It's sad," he repeated. "I mean, Chris Schumer was just a kid." _Eighteen,_ his brain reminded him. _Not really._ But Sam couldn't judge off his own experience. He didn't know when he'd stopped being a kid, but by the time he'd hit eighteen, childhood was long over. He knew Dean had tried to let him hang on to it for longer.

Dean's had been over at four.

"Yeah," his brother nodded. The flames were dying down, thin strands of smoke curling through the basement and bone crumbling to ash. Dean's eyes, when they met his, said _I know, Sammy._ "C'mon," were the words he heard instead. "We're done here."

_

* * *

_

"Off-world Activation!"

Arms folded, Jack cocked a brow as shimmering blue exploded and then settled, rippling light across the 'Gateroom. _And three, two, one -_

"Right on schedule," Ferretti crowed, holding out a hand.

_I can't believe Wexler got him to the 'Gate on time. _Jack dug deep into a pocket. "Jeez, Daniel had to choose _today_ to be punctual?"

"Yeah, well," Ferretti snatched the twenty from him with a cocksure grin, "there's a first for -"

"Tok'ra IDC," the technician announced.

"Wha – _Hey!_"

Jack smirked, tucking the bill back into his pocket. "You underestimate the power of the archaeologist," he informed the leader of SG-2. "Daniel and his rocks always win."

_Schluurp._

"Ahh, Jacob," Jack smiled, working his face muscles a little more than a natural grin would require. Caught the former General's eyes from behind bulletproof glass. "Nice of him to pop by." _Sort of. _Carter's dad, the latest addition to the Tok'ra, had been doing less ambassador work for the SGC than for the 'peaceful' snakes. _And right behind him. . . Crap! _"Aldwin."

"Could be worse," Ferretti muttered lowly, as the snakes sailed toward the 'Gateroom door with a bare nod in his direction.

"Yeah?" Jack snapped. _Can you say time-travel, Lou? _"How!"

"Could be Anise."

_And the armbands._

"Thanks," Jack snarled, sending the leader of SG-2 slinking from the control room. Took a breath. _Might as well get up to the briefing room before they –_

The 'Gate technician picked up a ringing phone, and swiveled his chair after listening for a moment. "Colonel O'Neill? You're required in the briefing room."

"Oh, _now_ what," he groused, headed for the stairs.

Seated at the briefing room table, General Hammond's face gave nothing away. _Aaaannnd – no help there._ "General," Jack slid into his own seat. "Jacob. Nice of you to drop in."

On the far end of polished oak, Jacob didn't smile. _Crap. Please, please don't let them say - _"Colonel O'Neill. Unfortunately, we're not here for a social visit."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Colonel."

Jack took in the stern timbre of Hammond's voice and the General's stern, _play-nice-or-else_ expression. _Ah, crap. Here we go._

Cushioned leather gave way; Jack settled back into his chair and arranged his face into something closer to a smile. "So. Jacob. What can we do for you?"

Jacob's eyes flicked to Aldwin, something quick and unsure beaming between them and then quelled.

Muscles fought to tense; Jack didn't let them. _What was that?_

It was Selmac who spoke first. "There is a situation, which the Tok'ra require the assistance of the SGC to solve. More specifically, we require SG-1."

_Isn't there always?_ "Well, naturally." Jack didn't bother to fake a smile this time.

Selmac, oldest and most unswerving of the Tok'ra, ignored him. "It has come to our attention that the System Lord Olokun has had access to the planet you have designated PX3-972."

_Names. They need names._ "Ye-es . . . ?"

Selmac's head bowed, and Jacob looked up. "PX3-972 is the planet that was used for the time-travel experiment authorized by the High Council last month."

Jack blinked. Shifted against plush leather again. "Oh. Right." _Why don't I like where this is going?_

"The success of the time-travel experiment performed demonstrated to the High Council the device's potential as an offensive weapon against the Goa'uld." Unctuous tones carried across the table as Aldwin spoke. "However, an initial defunct in the design required that the primary of the pair of devices used to travel through time be permanently attached to the Stargate itself in order to integrate into the Stargate network."

Tense shoulders lifted and dropped. Hesitated, then stretched out a kink. Rubbing a deep muscle ache, Jack stared back. "You superglued the portable Delorian to the 'Gate. And now the Goa'uld control the 'Gate. That's just _great._"

"It was never our intention that a System Lord would have access to PX3-972," General Carter said softly.

"Oh come on, Jacob!" Jack pushed free of confining wood and leather, stalking toward the glass window overlooking the 'Gateroom. _So of course now they need a recon mission into a probable combat situation, to remove their unmovable tin box or disable the damn thing before the next evil – eviler – snake finds out how to go back in time and un-make us all._

"I don't see what this has to do with the Earth Stargate," General Hammond frowned.

"We require the use of the Earth Stargate because of its security under the Asgaard Protected Planets Treaty," Aldwin clarified.

"Really." General Hammond's voice was colder than cracked ice.

General Carter was quiet, knowing how this was going to play out.

"As Commander of this facility, I'm afraid I can't allow that."

Aldwin's head tilted, face symbiote-blank. "We are your allies, and we require your aid -"

"As a matter of fact, you don't," Hammond countered, standing. "Information was never exchanged in regards to the time-travel device you developed before you used it on SGC personnel, _without_ the SGC's knowledge or approval. Now you want us to risk the attention of another System Lord so that you have the convenience of using a protected Stargate, and SGC personnel, to retrieve this device. Under the Earth-Tok'ra Alliance, we are not required to allow such action, and I will not authorize any mission

"Very well," Aldwin said, hissingly furious. Brown eyes flashed with symbiote rage, but the host remained in control. "We will speak to the High Council regarding this breach of treaty."

"There's _been_ no breach of the treaty," Jack tossed back, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"We will see," Aldwin returned. Jack eyed the Tok'ra carefully. _Hmm. Angry, but in control._ _Dangerous._ Unlike Freya/Anise, who was more prone to lashing out. "I shall return to Vorash immediately."

"If you feel you must," Hammond returned, more civilly than Jack would have been able to under the circumstances. "You know that you are welcome to rest and refreshment."

Aldwin nodded stiffly. "I must contact the High Council, and I cannot delay."

"Very well." Hammond reached for the phone. "Jacob?"

"I'll stay," General Carter answered, glancing at Aldwin. Selmac blinked up at them, before turning to the other Tok'ra. "Inform the High Council that I will remain to continue negotiations."

"Of course."

_Click._ "They're ready for you in the 'Gateroom," Hammond directed the words to Aldwin. Then he turned to Jack, with a smile and purposeful glint in blue eyes. "And Colonel O'Neill. Dr. Jackson and SG-5 just returned."

_

* * *

_

God, it hurts. It hurts!

But she'd had worse, definitely. _Remember P3M-164?_ Natives, with spears and a grudge against pale demons. Especially pale demons with red hair. Liz twisted against tight knots, feeling wetness on both wrists. Pried brown eyes open against the harsh lighting of her own basement.

With all the dangers her team faced off-world, the irony made her want to scream.

_Not happening. Earth is supposed to be safe!_

But he would be coming back soon, she knew it. The Mountain's security isolated the SGC from the rest of the real world; Liz hadn't heard the news of what the cops thought to be the sudden emergence of a local serial killer until three days ago. _God, let me get out of this please and I'll never go anywhere without my Beretta!_ Locking the doors and windows had been almost useless. She still didn't know how he'd gotten in.

Only that he'd been waiting for her.

_Just . . . a little . . . more –_

_Pop!_

Gasping against the pain of a dislocated thumb, Liz wriggled loose first one hand, then the other, careful of the stab wound in her shoulder. _Gotcha! Thank you, Colonel O'Neill, for that trick._

No time to waste; slamming the digit back into place, she made short work of the ropes binding ankles to the kitchen chair he'd hauled down into damp concrete confines, and lunged for the stairs. _Gotta get _out_ of here!_

One hand on the knob, other clamped against seeping pain, Liz paused. _Phone? 911?_ Wouldn't do any good if he'd cut the lines. She didn't have the keys to her car and had no idea where they might be if he'd snagged them after attacking her – she'd just dropped them on the table, and had no time to search. _Same goes for my cell. _He could be _anywhere_ on the other side of this door; she had no idea how long she'd been out.

_Need a weapon._

Some women had trashy romance novels stored in their bedside drawers. Private Elizabeth Campbell of the government installation known as Project Bluebook had a loaded Beretta and extra clip.

_And it's closer, now, than the door._ The last thing she needed was to be playing peek-a-boo with this nutjob through the streets of Colorado Springs.

_Get the weapon, call for backup._

Two fingers hit the light switch, plunging the stairs into blackness. Liz's heart was pounding in great, shuddering beats that sent a tremor through her whole body; she clenched one shaking hand on the knob, twisting slowly.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth. Keep to the shadows._

Liz's back hit the wall, sliding along toward the hallway. Ears intent on the house heard nothing. _Either he's quiet as death, or he's gone._ Military training assumed the first; the rest of her hoped for the second, unlikely as it might be.

Streetlights angled past sheer curtains, illuminating the hallway leading to her bedroom. _No cover._

No noise.

_Go!_

On swift cat-feet she raced down the hall carpet, wide eyes looking everywhere. Met the corner and froze just outside her bedroom. _Careful, careful._ Pressed one ear against the door, calming her own breathing enough to listen.

Eased the door open, scanning shadowed corners – and then she was jerking the drawer open, comforting weight sliding into her hand as if made for the curve of her palm. _Safety off._ Chamber loaded, magazine full, extra clip tucked in one pocket. _Thank God._

"Hello, Lizzie."

Dark silhouette blocking her bedroom door; a voice she didn't recognize. Liz braced herself, finger waiting on the trigger. "Get the hell away from me."

"Or what?" A flash of yellowed teeth accompanied the sneer. "You'll shoot me?"

_He's playing with me. _"Damn right I will."

A low laugh shivered her skin. Liz could almost feel it, like a chill breeze over the cold sweat blanketing her face. "That wouldn't be very polite at all."

"If you make any move toward me, I _will_ pull the trigger."

"Now, now, Lizzie -" One step.

_Bam!_

The figure staggered; she adjusted for recoil and squeezed the trigger again. _Bam! Bam!_

_Run!_

Liz hit the door at a sprint, leaping over the sprawled figure lying half in her room and half in the hall, racing for her front door. _Locked!_

She ripped free the chain, slamming deadbolt aside and yanking at the handle –

A hand thumped down on her wounded shoulder, ripping her around. Liz slammed back into the door, gulping for breath.

_No – he was wearing a vest?_

"Bullets, Lizzie? That wasn't very kind." And out of the darkness, his eyes _glowed_ at her.

Finger tight on the trigger, Liz couldn't help it. Over the blast of the Beretta firing over and over, she screamed.

_

* * *

_

_And the African-American male makes victim number four, found three days ago._

"So what do you think?"

Gold-flecked emerald scanned the article as Dean sifted through flimsy news-clippings spread out on the motel bed. "This is the fourth death in a ten-mile radius -"

Bangs brushing blue-green, Sam nodded, stretching his arms. Two days had been long enough to let the bruises from their last job rise and start to fade, but he was still stiff. "In the last month. Roughly one a week – and so far there seems to be no connection between the victims. Different genders, ages, ethnicities even. But get this -" _Where is it, where is – ah._ Shifting one article free of the pile scattered across the motel's table, Sam cleared his throat. "Eyewitness reports confirm the victims' presences at work and family functions up through the day they were murdered. But the coroner's report determines the time of death to be a week before the body was found."

Green eyes blinked; his older brother pulled himself to booted feet and began pacing worn carpet. "In every case?"

"Every one."

"You thinking skinwalker?"

_Yeah. _"Or possession." Swinging booted feet to the floor, Sam scooped articles together with internet printouts and stuffed everything between yellow manila folds.

"No chance this is zombies, or some kind of corpse reanimation?"

Sam reached for his coffee, pulling a long sip from steaming styrofoam. "No reports of unusual behavior from the victims before their deaths. Families didn't notice anything."

Dean _hmph_ed. One hand rested on closed plastic, silver ring tapping the laptop's exterior. "At least not anything they were willing to give to the presses."

"What do you think?" Sam knew the thoughtful cast lighting green eyes.

His brother moved back from the window, reaching for laundry. "Either way, sounds like our kind of gig."

"It's a couple hundred miles away."

Dean's brows flicked up in a facial shrug; the jeans he was rolling were tucked into a corner of the ancient duffle plopped on the foot of his bed. "Look at the pattern. Bodies dead a week before actually being _found_ dead. Whatever this is has a new victim, probably a new face, by the time it leaves the body to be found. It's already moved on to somebody new – all we can do is try to stop it."

Zipping his own duffel, Sam winced. "Yeah."

"You check us out, I'll load the car?"

"Sounds good," Sam gave the room one last glance for anything forgotten, and pulled the door shut.

At the Impala, Dean was hefting both duffels into the back seat. "Colorado Springs, here we come."


	2. Chapter 2

Shaking fingers clamped on Styrofoam, almost too tight.

"Easy, now." Janet guided the cup of coffee to Liz's mouth. _Trembling. Heart-rate up. Adrenaline saturating her system._ At least it was decaf.

"I shot him eight times," shivered out from between tight-pressed lips. "_Point blank._"

"And he was still moving?"

Janet shot a death-glare at the Colonel. Jack shrugged, arms crossed as he propped up the Infirmary wall.

"He _kept coming,_" Liz whispered. Brown eyes couldn't stop moving, dissecting every shadow. _Shock. Post-traumatic stress?_

"Must have been wearing Kevlar." Tony Wexler, leader of SG-5, packed grimness into every word. One hand rubbed soothingly at a tense shoulder; Liz kept scanning the corners of the room.

A new voice managed to draw her attention, but only for a minute. "How did you get away?" Daniel was there too, looking out for members of the scientific side of the SGC, military or civilian.

"Shots must have stunned him. I ran to my neighbor's house," Liz gulped at the coffee. Sucked in a deep breath, and brought her eyes up to meet General Hammond's. "I saw him leave, sir. I watched from the window, and he just stepped outside the door and walked down the street. By the time the police arrived, he was gone."

"And you didn't get a good look at him," Jack stepped forward.

"No, sir. He'd thrown some of the fuses and cut off power – the whole house was dark. Except the basement." The last word wavered, and Janet took in slumped posture and clenched hands. _All right. No more._ "That's enough for now. General, Private Cunningham needs to rest."

Hammond dipped his head in a nod, giving Liz's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Colonel."

"Liz?" Janet gently tucked a warm blanket around tense shoulders. "Do you need anything?"

"His eyes," she said suddenly. Blinking, Liz seemed to see the Infirmary for the first time. She straightened, fingers winding into heated wool. "His eyes glowed."

Everyone froze.

_Goa'uld._

One look at the General told her that there was no way she would be able to make them leave now, not until Private Cunningham had reported in full.

"Private." Jack's voice now reminded her of the 'Charlie' incident – low and gentle. _Careful._ "We need to know everything that happened last night."

That got a blink and a nod. _Thousand-yard stare is fading._ Janet knew a little about psychology, enough to know that talking this out would help. Not enough to know if it might be better to wait.

Another scalding sip went down; Liz licked her lips briefly. "I got home around seven. A little later than normal, but nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't notice anything wrong when I went into my house – no doors unlocked, windows open, no signs that anyone had broken in. I made a cup of tea, and went to sit in the living room to watch the news."

"What happened then?" Janet rubbed blanket-covered shoulders, easing the warmth from heated wool deeper into muscle and bone. One shifted under her grip.

"I – I don't really remember much. Except – cloth, over my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe – and there was a sweet, sick smell."

"Chloroform," Janet murmured, catching the archaeologist's wince. Daniel exchanged a speaking glance with Colonel O'Neill.

General Hammond nodded, face tight and fists clenched out of Cunningham's sight.

Every line of Tony Wexler's body was tense. "And when you woke up you were in the basement."

Auburn strands nodded. "I managed to get free -"

"How?" Daniel, gently probing.

"A dislocated thumb," Janet answered, indicating one gently bandaged hand where it rested in Liz's lap.

"And get upstairs. I keep a Beretta in my bedside table – I didn't know if I should go for the gun, or the door -" Heaving breaths interrupted the uneven flow of words.

Janet stepped between Liz and the Colonel, easing her head between her knees for a moment and murmuring soothing nonsense. Ribs expanded and contracted under her palm; Wexler was squeezing one shoulder. "C'mon, now, Cunningham. It's okay, Liz. Hey, remember that time on P3M-164? And the crazy natives?"

Strangled laughter, but it seemed to help. "That's what I told myself," Liz managed through a gasp. Janet slid two fingers onto her wrist, silently counting. _Elevated, but easing._

"Yeah, well, nothing like a few spear-happy guys running around in their altogether to put a little Earth-side action into perspective, hey?"

The nod was shakier, this time, but it was still there.

"What happened next?" Colonel O'Neill, playing bad cop.

"I – I went for the gun," Liz gulped at the cooling coffee. "I got it, I was going for the door – and he was there. He – he called me Lizzie. Wasn't afraid of the gun. He _laughed_ at me."

Daniel again, soft. "What did you do?"

Viciousness lit a gleam in brown eyes. "I shot him," she said fiercely. "And then I ran for the door. He – he caught me before I could get it open. Thought he was wearing a vest. And he said, he said, 'Bullets, Lizzie? That wasn't very kind' – and then his eyes _glowed._"

"But you didn't see a ribbon device?" Jack leant over, making eye contact. Intent. "A personal shield?"

"No. I – I emptied the clip into him before he could say anything."

_So no intel on who the symbiote was. _Which meant that this debrief was over. Dr. Frasier took control of the situation once more; she would have one of the nurses in here in a moment to take Liz's vitals more formally. "Did you talk to the police already?"

Another nod.

Janet kept the frown off her face. _Out of shock, but withdrawn. Emotional and mental trauma._ Which meant counseling. After the disaster with Daniel's misdiagnosis, however, SGC personnel were extremely leery when it came to MacKenzie.

Jack followed the General out; Daniel murmured a few words to Liz and managed to wring a tiny smile loose. Wexler planted himself firmly in a plastic chair, leveling a look straight at her – one that said _just-try-and-make-me_.

"You can stay, Major," Janet met that gimlet stare with one of her own. "But you will be quiet, understand? No questions."

"Yes, Doctor."

_No SG team leader was ever meek. _One red-brown brow hiked challengingly. "Upset her, and you're out."

Wexler nodded back.

_Good enough for now._

* * *

"Here's probably good."

Dean eased the Impala against the sidewalk's curb, taking care not to block any of her doors with a tree. Took a good look around, since they had skirted the Colorado Springs city center and ended up in the suburbs. "Huh."

"Upper middle class," was Sam's contribution.

"You got the list of victims?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice turned serious, reading off the names. "Stephanie Torres, twenty nine, secretary. JR King, worked in IT, twenty-four years old. Lynette Garland, analyst, thirty-five. And the last; Victor Dutienne, thirty, a duplicating assistant."

"A what?"

Sam grimaced. "Copyboy. Y'know, Xeroxing. Not the most stimulating job out there."

_That sucks out loud. _"Damn."

"Still. All single, kept in reasonable contact with their families, no trouble with the law. And they all have one other thing in common." His brother's hair was so long it flopped into blue-green eyes, but Dean could read his face easily enough. _Now what's wrong?_ "They worked in or for the military base."

Dean reached for the door. "We go where the weird is, Sammy." _Only it doesn't usually seem to go for noticeable targets. Like the government._ "Still. That's one hell of a connection."

"Yeah." His brother unfolded himself from the passenger seat, door opening with a _creeeak._

_Gotta oil the hinges,_ Dean reminded himself. The doors sucked up WD40 like the engine guzzled gas. _And cue the frown._ Not much of a one, but the little line between Sam's brows was easy enough to decipher, even half-hidden by hair. "Sam. What?"

"Colorado Springs is a military town, Dean. I mean, NORAD is under Cheyenne Mountain." His brother's body was tight with anxiety under two layers of shirts, shoulders hunched and fingers dug deep into pockets. "If we screw up here . . ."

_NORAD. It'll bring Henrickson like a moth to flame, and he'll get whatever help he needs to keep chasing us. _"We can't just let it go on killing, Sammy." They really had no kind of a choice, here.

Frustration leaked from the taller man in a groan. "I know, Dean. But -"

_But years of flying under the radar won't mean anything. Can't hunt evil from jail. _"Dude, chill. I get it." A thought slithered past him; Dean let the manicured bushes in his view go unfocused as he tried to catch it. _Wait. Did he say –_ "Cheyenne Mountain?"

Butt planted against the front fender, Sam looked up. "Yeah. What?"

_Gone. Sonuva –_ Dean shook his head. "Nothin'. Who we visiting first?"

"Stephanie Torres," Sam leant through the window, digging into the glovebox for IDs. "Secretary." His younger brother's shaggy mop tilted toward a small, neatly-kept two-story across the street.

_White paint, two-car garage, and flowers. Couldn't get any more friggin' normal if there was a picket fence._ Normal, and ignorant – until something had crept in and killed her. "House should be empty." Black casing peeked out of his duffle; Dean tucked the EMF meter into a deep pocket.

"Neighbors," Sam's reply was muffled; his head was still in the Impala as he dug around in the dashboard.

"It's the middle of the day, Sam. They're probably at work." Dean still tucked the false license in his wallet; it would make it more plausible if the neighbors found Dean Roberts, fact-checker for CNN, than a cop on the Colorado Springs force, poking around a month-old crime scene. "C'mon."

Two pairs of boots hit grass instead of the bricked walkway up to the front door. Around back, luck smiled on them in the form of a recessed entry, protected from the neighbors' windows. Dean eased two picks into the lock, feeling for tumblers and tweaking each into place. _Sweet._

"She was found tied in the basement," Sam used one gloved hand to ease white-painted wood open. "Same for the others. Cops think they have a serial killer on the loose."

_Just like St. Louis. Great._ Dean pulled out his gun. Just in case.

A quick sweep showed the house was clear of people, and that Torres' belongings had been completely cleaned out. _Damn._ "Figure we'll find anything?" They wouldn't, but Sam didn't like wasting time any more than Dean did. Stood to reason he'd seen something in one of the reports that set him off.

"I was wondering." Sam reached for a knob, revealing a black, empty space and descending stairs when it swung open. Rooting through baggy sweatshirt pockets, his little brother came up with a flashlight.

_Click._

Eyes on the stairs, Dean's handgun led the way.

"All the victims were found in the basement. None of the neighbors saw anyone suspicious around the houses in the week or more before Torres died; same for the others."

"Dude, just because no one sees it doesn't mean there isn't something there." Boots smacked concrete dully; Dean reached for dangling string. One pull, and light flooded the basement.

"None of the other switches in the house worked," Sam frowned. The flashlight beam laid bare the corners and spidery hole under the stairs; Dean moved to the breakers.

_That explains it._ "Someone pulled the fuses." Bare metal scraped against seeking fingers; the older Winchester's lips pursed. "And cut the wires. Whatever it was, it didn't take any chances."

Blue glowed faintly, shining from behind him. Sam had pulled out the blacklight. "Afraid of the light?"

_No._ Didn't make sense. Dean shook his head. "Then why would it keep its victims here, _in_ the light?"

Sam _hmmm_ed, the blue glow busily shifting up and down. Dean tucked the handgun within easy reach, and pulled the EMF-meter free of his pocket. It slowly came to life in his hand, but he didn't read anything beyond a constant low-level emission, easily explained by the juice running through wires powering the deserted house. "Got anything?"

"No," and the blue light _click_ed off.

_Victims in the light. Rest of the house dark . . . _"Didn't the neighbors notice if it looked like Torres didn't come home?"

"Huh?"

Dean shrugged, poking the EMF-meter into the crawlspace under creaky steps. "Torres had a routine, right? For the thing to be able to track her. Single, so not hookin' up with anyone. Comes home at the same time every night, and she needs lights. Wouldn't the neighbors notice the house was dark?"

Sam grabbed the thread of idea, and ran with it. "Unless she _did_ come home, and go through her routine."

"And it waited until she was asleep to grab her."

"Or at least until it could pretend she was asleep." Sam circled the small space behind him. "But why pull the lights?"

Dean had come up with dust and not much else. He gave the flashlight a considering glance. "People are afraid of the dark, Sammy."

Under floppy bangs, green-blue eyes went distant, chasing a thought. "Yeah."

_

* * *

_

Gamma shielding requires increased density. Atoms packed tightly. Should correspond to increased physical density, but –

"What've you got?"

Sam blinked, looking up from her side of the shared workspace.

"Unfortunately, nothing definite." Daniel fiddled a pen between long fingers; pointed at the computer. The archaeologist had slipped into her workroom a few hours before, with a few books and a listening ear. "There are almost a dozen System Lords unaccounted-for by the Tok'ra in the time before Ra was overthrown and the Earth Stargate buried. Nergal, Erra, Tezcatlipoca, Gunab, Laima, Berstuk -"

"Yadda yadda," Jack folded his arms, settling back against the worktable scattered in equal measure with Daniel's texts and her instruments. "Got anything, Teal'c?"

The Jaffa's head tilted, unperturbed. "There are stories of the downfall of Erra, told long ago. It is said he unleashed his greatest plague on the Jaffa who served him, and in their madness they turned against him and tore him to pieces."

"I guess that takes him off the list," Sam blew out a breath.

"Plague?" Jack said, distaste in every letter.

"Erra was the Babylonian god of pestilence." Daniel tapped his pen against the leather-bound cover of one of his texts. "He and Niirti had a lot in common."

_Cassie._

Sam refocused on her friend.

"My point is," the archaeologist continued, "that it could be any of these Goa'uld. If they landed on Earth or came through the Stargate unnoticed, they could still be here. Lying dormant like Isis and Osiris, hopping from host to host like Seth."

Sam winced. _Just don't think about it._ "And the Tok'ra don't have any more information to help us narrow the search?" She turned blue eyes to Selmac. _Dad?_

The Tok'ra didn't flinch. "Hundreds of System Lords have risen and been deposed in the thousands of years the Goa'uld have roamed the galaxy." BDU-covered shoulders shrugged. "Some slip through the cracks."

"A _dozen_?"

Selmac sighed, head dropping; her Dad looked up. "Look, I don't know what to tell you, Jack. There aren't many Tok'ra with memories that old, and we've lost track of Goa'uld in the past. It happens. Mostly when they disappeared they weren't much of a threat anyway – or likely to become one."

Teal'c's brow crept slowly toward the golden symbol on his forehead.

"But that could change," Sam frowned, fingers fiddling with a piece of flexi-glass from P5M-K58. _After all, we thought Apophis was gone._ "Even after five thousand years."

Look at the problems Seth had caused, when he had been supposedly dead and gone.

"If the Tok'ra could give me more information, so that I could at least narrow down the list," Daniel tried, all earnestness and determination.

Sam blinked, feeling a smile well up inside; _that_ was nice to see. Their more recent missions hadn't been easy on any of them, but seemed to hit the archaeologist particularly hard.

Dad sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"I will assist you as well, Daniel Jackson."

"Thank you, Teal'c."

Hands linked behind his back, the fourth member of SG-1 tilted his head slightly.

Jack shifted brown eyes her way. "Carter, any luck?"

"Yes, sir." Turning to her own computer, she pulled up a few rundowns of her results. _Okay, first - _"Colorado Springs police reports. There have been four other victims in the last month, all of whom were killed. The medical examiner's been having trouble determining the exact time of death; it seems that he consistently finds the time of death to be about a week before the victim was last seen alive."

"Okay, that's weird," Jack folded his arms over his chest, staring at her.

_But there is an explanation. _"The way medical examiners determine time of death for a body found in a crime scene is to find the temperature of the corpse, and compare it to living human norm, which is ninety-eight point five degrees Farenheight. There's an equation they use, plugging in the temperature of the body at discovery against the norm, and solving for the variable, time." _Thank you, Janet._

"The Goa'uld can control the host's nervous systems, and involuntary functions," Daniel rounded the table, coming to peer over her shoulder at the screen.

_Which is how they inflict pain on their hosts and force them to do what they want._ Sam resettled on her stool, the scientist in her intrigued. "The host's core body temperature would only have to be lowered by about three degrees for it to have a significant impact on the time-of-death equation." _Just above the level where hypothermia would set in._ "Is it possible for a symbiote to lower the host's body temperature that much?" She directed the question at her Dad.

For a moment he seemed to confer within himself; then Jacob frowned. "Selmac says it's possible, but difficult. And neither of us can think of a reason _why_ a symbiote would do that."

Jack's voice was cold. "Makes it hard on the host, doesn't it?"

"Reason enough," Daniel murmured. From anyone else, it would be bitter; but her friend's voice was laced with hurt. _Sha'uri._

And even though Jolinar had never tortured her, the Tok'ra had done enough just by – _Stop it. She had to – there was no other way._

At least, that was what the High Council had agreed upon.

_Dammit._

"Private Cunningham is the first survivor?" The Colonel's tone was matter-of-fact, but the twist of his lips betrayed assessment.

"She appears to be the only survivor, O'Neill."

_Of course._ Teal'c made it a point to watch the news – he probably knew more about what the media was saying than the rest of them put together. _Hmm . . . the media._

"As far as we know," Daniel contributed. Brown brows hitched upward as he scanned the police report.

Sam scrolled downward, blue eyes skimming the screen. "The local news stations have been running the police's theory that a serial killer is on the loose in the area. Until now, no one has managed to escape. They haven't even released that there's been another attack." She was actually a little surprised that Cunningham wasn't already in protective custody.

_Think, Sam. Cheyenne Mountain pretty much counts. _

"Well." Jack's smile was wolf-like. "We wouldn't want to disrupt any official investigations."

Uneasiness curled inside her. _He – he can't mean –_

"Jack . . ."

"What?" Jack snapped back, the barest of edges in his tone. "What goes on in this facility is classified, Daniel."

"And Liz was attacked _in her home,_ Jack," the archaeologist retorted, shoving his glasses up. "That's _not_ the SGC's jurisdiction."

"Doesn't matter," the colonel waved a dismissive hand. "It was a _Goa'uld._ That sure as hell is our jurisdiction!"

_Wait a minute._

Sam reached for the keyboard, fingers flying under the noise of the debate behind her heating up further.

"But the police have already been working on the case," Daniel argued. She couldn't see his face, but the astrophysicist could hear the strain in his voice.

"We won't stop Cunningham from talking to them. She'll just have to . . . edit her account, slightly."

Coldness seeped through her veins. _C'mon, where is it - _

"Is that not illegal by your country's standards, O'Neill?"

_You bet it is, Teal'c._

"Private Cunningham took an oath to maintain national security when she was brought into the SGC," Jack bit out. "She has a responsibility to this facility -"

Daniel wasn't giving in. "To abide by her country's laws too, Jack."

"Same thing."

_Got it! _"That isn't going to work anyway," Sam interrupted, azure gaze settling on the text she'd been searching for. _Thank God. _"Private Cunningham already gave her statement to the police."

* * *

"Hey, check it out." Sam pushed the paper under Dean's nose.

"New victim . . ." Green scanned lines of print, and looked up in impressed surprise. "She got away."

"Yeah." Sam leant back in the too-tiny, too-stiff motel chair, and huffed a sigh. _Ow._ Shifted against metal slats digging into his spine, trying not to look too hard at the silver saucers flying against navy wallpaper. "Police have been keeping it pretty quiet; it hasn't hit the news yet."

"Which means we can't just waltz up and ask for an interview," Dean muttered, bed _creak_ing under him as he sat forward. "She works in the Cheyenne Mountain base too. Looks like that's our link."

_City this big, the law of averages should have someone working in the Pikes' Peak tourist trade getting targeted by now._ "Except she's not administrative staff," Sam slouched, crossing jean-covered ankles. "She's in the Air Force."

For a minute, Dean was silent. Then, "Huh."

Not a _that's-nice_ sound, one that Sam heard every-so-often when something he'd said caught Dean's attention. A _look-what-I-found_ sound. "What?"

His brother shifted off the mattress, sparing a second to glare at the green alien heads grinning across the bedspread. "Get this – statement says that the guy's eyes glowed."

_Glowed? _"Not black?"

"Nope."

"Well, there goes possible possession." Which could only be good – made things simpler. _You knew from the start this wasn't tied into the Demon. No visions._ Sam shoved the disappointment away, replacing it with relief that at least he wouldn't have to copy the Key of Solomon again.

Dean scratched at short hair, striding to the window and settling against the wall. "Yeah. Looks like the cops wrote it off as a streetlight shining in through the windows and reflecting off his eyes."

_Wait a minute . . . _"But I thought the fact that the skinwalker's eyes glowed was only camera flare. You couldn't actually _see_ it with your own eyes." Sam gave up on the chair, feeling vertebrae pop as he stretched long arms toward the star-painted ceiling.

A pen flipped in Dean's fingers, outdoor lighting glinting off the silver ring on his right hand. "That would make ID-ing them a hell of a lot easier."

"Still." Sam sighed. _It fits. _"All the signs point to the fact that whatever was impersonating the victims knew details only the victims would. Psychic connection would give the imposter that. So. Skinwalker?"

"Skinwalker." Lines smoothed out as Dean's frown melted. "Or close enough."

_For silver bullets._

"It _does_ match with what we pulled from the victim's houses today, too." _No EMF in the first two, barely any readings in the third, and something more substantial in the fourth. Could have been using the sewer system to move, like the one in St. Louis._ Sam leant over his laptop, ignoring the chair for a moment.

"Yeah, I know." His big brother pulled the curtain tighter, moving back to the notes scattered across his bed. Distracted by the screen, Sam almost didn't hear the trailing question. "But _why?_"

_Huh? _"Why what?"

"This skinwalker." Paper rustled; Dean dumped a pile of print-outs next to the laptop. "It's not just killing people for some psycho reason like the one in St. Louis. It's just – taking their places? I mean, _why?_"

Finished saving files and bookmarking sites, Sam hit the power button. "It's effectively a serial killer, Dean. I think that's explanation enough." It was automatic, playing devil's advocate, each brother taking up an opposing side of an issue, working toward an answer.

"No." Boots hit the floor, followed by socks; as he crossed black carpet, Sam watched Dean slip the sharp Bowie beneath his pillow.

_Ziiiiiiiiiiip._

Rifling through his duffle, Sam yanked out a mostly-clean shirt. "Why not?"

"A skinwalker offs people, and then what? Spends a week living their lives, nine-to-fiving it? No way." Flannel hit the awful bedspread as Dean shucked his outer shirt. "What's the point? The victims were all pretty boring people; it's not like it was hitting the town every night or somethin'."

A breath huffed from his lungs; Sam twisted his mouth to hide the smile that wanted out. "You never know."

"Hell, they didn't even know each other," Dean continued, wrestling free of the rest of his clothes. Before he dropped into bed, though, each garment was folded and set within easy reach, just in case. _All Dad._

"They didn't seem to have anything in common," Sam agreed. Froze, halfway to the bathroom. _Except -_

"Cheyenne Mountain," came the mutter from the bed closest to the door. "Son of a bitch. It's going after something in NORAD."

_Oh, God. That's it._ That was the connection.

Wide green eyes, so like his own, stared at him. "Sammy, we gotta get in there."

His jaw dropped, words spilling out. "What, are you _crazy?_ We can't just . . . blast our way into NORAD, Dean!"

St. Louis, and all its consequences, hung between them.

Then Dean rolled his eyes, and the look he shot Sam was eloquent. _'No, really, college-boy?'_

Sam could feel his teeth grinding against one another. "Dean -"

But his big brother was reaching for the bedside table; came up holding his cell. "Dude, chill."

_I don't believe this. _The mattress _squeak_ed beneath him as Sam plopped on his own bed, facing his brother. "Who are you gonna call, Dean? Bobby? You know someone who can get us into NORAD?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," Dean snapped, any hint of a joke completely absent from his face. Startled, Sam's jaw snapped shut. "I do."

**

* * *

**

**A/N2: **Special thanks to trecebo for providing me with the names of the victims. I did do a mad scramble with the options given, but all generated names are courtesy of her. Alphonso Canton sadly did not make the cut, though he may show up somewhere near the end of the fic . . . and quite possibly even be alive. grin


	3. Chapter 3

It liked this mask. A lot. And the meaty human who'd had it first was so _full _of delicious secrets, brain a hodgepodge of _classified_ and _eyes-only_ and _top-secret._ All buried under layers, in the way of most human brains; but these layers were mazes, were puzzles, were slip-sliding together into _look-this-way_ and _over-here_ and _not-that_.

Twisting them apart was _fun._

It re-wet drying lips, relishing in flesh flushed with fluids and health. Fresh, and clean – unlike the last, which had too many holes and leaked, peeling apart from each one.

_She ruined it._

Something shook its hands on the truck steering wheel, knuckles pushing white under thin skin, pulsing with every beat of its heart. Remnants of the human he'd stolen the mask from named the sensation _rage._

It had never felt anything so addictive.

_Almost as good as the scent._

But not quite.

It'd first caught the aroma entwined with that of the woman who had destroyed its last set of clothes. It had never smelled anything like this before – seductive promise, heating what passed for its blood, slicking what might once have been nerves with another human emotion. _Desire._

_Must have it. MUST._

On the woman, but not in her home. Nowhere else, just on her. It couldn't trace the scent – had been trying, when it made the mistake of leaving her alone, not copying her life as soon as it could and then disposing of the trash.

Hadn't scented that particular tang on the air, until the body of its latest mask had walked past the wrong alleyway, wafting the unique scent to it.

And on the body of its latest mask, the scent was even _thicker._ It reached back into memories it had carved open, searching.

_Where is -_

A bored voice interrupted. "ID."

_How _dare_ he tell me – _

It reached two gloriously _human_ fingers into leather folds, pulling out a card with its mask, properly labeled, as the humans insisted upon. Couldn't kill this one, not yet. It needed to get inside. _Deep_ inside, where the earlier masks had never gone.

"Good morning, sir." Dull eyes blinked at it, pen scratching over a clipboard. "Go ahead."

It decided to try out its new voice. "Thanks." The sound was rough, husky. Unused. It appealed to the creature behind the mask.

Teeth bared briefly its way – humans called that a _smile,_ it knew. Didn't make sense – lips pulled back over the teeth just before the kill. _They think it is a good thing? _Something that might have been _laughter,_ vicious and solid, crawled up its throat.

It decided to try.

The guard didn't look up, and its foot went to the gas pedal as soon as the beam crossing the road lifted out of the way.

_In._

* * *

"So we can cross Badb Catha off the list?" The full coffee mug lifted, and was lighter when the scholar set it back down.

Teal'c studied his friend. "Indeed. She had been concealed in a far system, with only a few dozen Jaffa in her service. The System Lord Morrigan made her execution quite public. Tek'ma'te Bra'tac was present."

"So that takes care of three of the System Lords on the Tok'ra's list," Daniel Jackson said around a yawn. "But you said they're missing Vahagn?"

"He is known to my people as Vishabakagh," Teal'c agreed. _Dragon-reaper, enemy of Ba'al. _Circles drew thick smudges under blue eyes, only half-hidden by lenses. The young Tau'ri appeared fatigued. "Are you unwell, Daniel Jackson?"

Blinking, the archaeologist shook his head. "I'm fine, Teal'c. Just didn't get a lot of sleep last night, between the artifacts from P5M-K58 and the information Jacob pulled from the High Council."

The information they were currently going through, updating the list with help of the knowledge Teal'c had gleaned as First Prime of Apophis. For all his diplomatic talents, Daniel Jackson's true interest was with the artifacts from his mission with SG-5.

It was a perpetual dilemma with the SGC; Teal'c was not unaware that most of their missions resulted in more work than the individuals involved could fully examine, and most certainly not as quickly as demanded.

_Tap, tap._

An auburn head poked through the open door. "Hi, Dr. Jackson."

"Liz!" A true smile graced the archaeologist's face. "How're you holding up?"

Private Cunningham edged between shelves and the book-strewn tabletop, returning the smile. "Better, I think. Major Wexler drove me home yesterday; I didn't really want to go, but the police were watching the house all night. Everything was fine. And . . . I think it was something I had to do."

"That's good." Sincerity shone in Daniel Jackon's words.

"You show much bravery in returning to a sanctuary that has been invaded." Teal'c offered Private Cunningham his hand; gripped her wrist, warrior to warrior. _The Tau'ri are indeed a warrior race._ Among the Jaffa, as well, it was considered a triumph to conquer one's own fears.

Under green BDU's, slender shoulders straightened. "Thank you, sir."

"What did the police say?" The linguist propped folded hands on the papers piled across the surface of his heavy worktable.

Private Cunningham heaved a sigh, leaning on a portion of wood free of texts. "They have a few leads, but they think he's human."

"They will therefore turn up little of use," Teal'c observed. _Even Seth was successful in evading Tau'ri law enforcement._ _For a time._

"It's more than likely," Daniel Jackson admitted. The scholar took another sip of coffee. "Sam's been looking for patterns, anything that could tell us where he's gone to ground. It's probably going to take awhile, though."

"I know." Private Cunningham linked her fingers together. "In the meantime – do you have the artifacts from P5M-K58? I might as well keep busy."

Daniel Jackson's forehead wrinkled. "I had them sent down to your office. You don't have them?"

Private Cunningham stilled, dread in every word. "I didn't get anything. I thought you had them."

"No."

Simultaneous bursts of sound; one the grumbling roar of a rockslide, the other akin to the hisses of sand-spitters from Abydos. The Abydonian he understood. Teal'c raised a brow.

The noises trailed off into a look of distinct interest; Daniel Jackson blinked at Private Cunningham. "That's not one I've heard before. Russian?"

Red stained pale skin. "My grandfather, sir."

"Ah." The scholar took another sip of coffee, rubbing beneath his glasses. "Okay. I'll check Sam's lab, you look in Storage on 26?"

A brisk nod preceded the Private's departure.

Rueful blue eyes turned his way. "I'm sorry, Teal'c -"

"I will continue to examine the information given to us by Selmac and General Carter," the Jaffa interrupted smoothly. "I believe there are several Goa'uld mentioned whose demises are recorded in the legends of my people."

A quick grin darted his way; the archaeologist headed for the door at a run. "Thanks, Teal'c. I'll be right back!"

* * *

The hair on the back of Dean's neck prickled.

_Alright. Security desk. Check._

The ID his contact had sent him was enough to get him through the door and down to the bottom level of NORAD with no one the wiser, but that wasn't where they needed to go. _And even with his clearance, he couldn't get us down there._ Not without showing up in person and blowing their cover out of the water.

The guard behind the desk on Sublevel 11 eyed him warily, taking in jeans, biker boots, and jacket. "ID?"

Sam had been more worried about getting out, but that was the easy part. Getting _in_ was the challenge. Dean slid his perfectly valid visitor's pass across the desk, fingers creeping toward the lighter in one pocket.

Everywhere was sheet steel and guards with enough antipersonnel weapons to stop a tank. _All for that elevator. _Which he had to get to without getting shot. Civilians, noncombatants and officers trickled past as the guard at the checkpoint scrutinized the small card with his picture and name.

_C'mon, Sammy, c'mon._ His brother should be in place by now. The pass skidded back across the slick surface at him, barely stopping before hitting the edge.

_Vvvvmmmmm. Vvvvvmmmmmm._ Deep in Dean's pocket, his cell phone gave one more silent shudder before stilling. Sam was ready.

_Three minutes. Go. _The screens behind this desk had backups in a room down the hall, but Dean's watch read 10:43 AM – the exact time every day where a systems-reload brought the security cameras watching the outside entrances to Cheyenne Mountain offline, for exactly one-hundred and eighty seconds.

"Is everything all right?" Dean pushed his body closer to the desk, easing the lighter free of his pocket. In the other hand, a cigarette carton was blocked from camera view and scrutiny of the guards, caught between his body and the four-and-a-half-foot high security desk.

_Clk._

Flame warmed his skin for a second before the fuse caught; one movement flipped the lighter closed and slipped it away, another tucked the sparking fuse down into the carton, separated from the tiny charges by thin cloth. _Forty-five seconds._

The suit behind the desk nodded stiffly, shoving a clipboard his way. "Yes. If you could sign here." Not a request.

Dean scrawled something across the line, flashed a tight smile and turned away. Then shifted back, as if forgetting something. "Hey, you have a trash can?" He held up the packet of cigarettes, presumably empty.

The guard practically scowled, but held the tiny bin up regardless. "Yes."

_Thirty seconds._

It was enough to get him to the entrance of the hallway next to the elevators before -

_Cr-a-a-a-a-a-ack! Cr-a-a-a-a-a-ack!_

Concrete covered by thin red carpeting slammed the breath out of him as Dean hit the floor; shouts and the panicked baritone yells of the security guard followed him down. One arm snaked out, hitting the small _Down_ arrow. _C'mon, c'mon!_

All eyes were on the flashing series of small explosions spewing smoke from behind the security desk; the noncoms had disappeared, and the guards had all rushed to the checkpoint, weapons out. One pulled the choking security officer out from behind the barricade, the others had taken up ready stances between the rest of the room and the source of tapering explosions and worsening smoke.

"It's _on fire!_"

A red extinguisher appeared, spewing foam.

In all the commotion, no one heard the _ding!_ of the elevator arriving.

Gray smoke was already dissipating with the help of NORAD's ventilation system, the series of small explosions having run their course; one security guard, braver than the rest, ventured behind the desk. Dean rolled into the empty car.

Elevator doors closed on the sight of the spent string of firecrackers, soaked in white foam, dangling from one black-gloved hand.

Dean grinned.

_

* * *

_

Rrrring!

Aides notwithstanding, there was just too much paperwork involved in running an operation as large-scale as the SGC. _Evaluations, mission reports, status reports . . . _Hammond signed a requisition for more medical supplies, marked by Dr. Frasiers's neat script.

_Rrrring!_

This time, the sound registered; faded red brows descended as Hammond frowned at the phone. _NORAD? _"Hello?"

The nameless voice from the base upstairs quavered. "Sir, Code Grey. Security breach, Level 11."

Hammond's hand reached for a button on the phone even as he snapped, "Airman, I want to speak to your superior immediately!"

_Click. _Reroute.

"Control Room."

"Sergeant Harriman," Hammond snapped, ire rising. "Put the base on full alert, and get me Colonel O'Neill. Code Grey. Initiate lockdown procedures."

"Sir," Harriman acknowledged, even as the klaxons exploded to life. _"Security breach. Code Grey. Repeat: Code Grey."_

George switched back over to the people upstairs. "Report."

"Hello, George."

"Tom," George responded evenly. "What in the sam hill is going on up there?"

Sgt. Harriman's voice rang out over the intercom. _"Colonel O'Neill to the Briefing Room."_

While the threat of incursion was something they had planned for, it had been more likely to come from the Stargate – not NORAD.

"One man managed to breach security on Level 11," embarrassment colored General Bynard's voice. Hammond could almost see the man running sheepish fingers through thinning salt-and-pepper strands. "Had the proper visitor's pass and credentials to get inside, caused an . . . incident at the security checkpoint that acted as a good enough distraction for him to get past the guards and into the elevator."

_One man got past NORAD's defenses?_ "What kind of distraction?" Hammond snapped. _Is he –_

O'Neill burst through the door, breathing hard. "Sir?"

The SGC's 2IC quieted as George lifted a hand.

"There's only one," Bynard was quick to assure him. _Unarmed. _And despite the situation, George was well aware that no weapons came into NORAD that weren't documented, crated, and signed-for. "I'll give you more details as soon as I have them."

"You do that," Hammond snapped. _This should never have happened._ Blue eyes flicked to Colonel O'Neill, waiting impatiently.

"Code Grey, sir?"

"A hostile managed to get by NORAD's security on Level 11," Hammond stalked around the front of his desk, unable to check his fury.

Brown eyes sharpened; Jack took a step forward. "What are the odds on this being the System Lord who attacked Private Cunningham, sir?"

Hammond blinked. _Damn! _"I don't have any information that would lead me to that conclusion, Colonel. The people upstairs wouldn't know what to report, unless they saw something they couldn't explain." _In other words, we have no way of knowing._ "Until we know more, we have to treat this as a terrorist incursion."

O'Neill's slow nod told him the Colonel heard what Hammond hadn't said. "We should go into lockdown, General." Tension ran through his 2IC's body, veined with anger.

Hammond nodded. "It's already done. Start the sweep of all levels -"

_Rrring!_

Hammond reached for the phone across the shiny mahogany desktop. "Report!"

Panicked babble poured into his ear; he listened for a moment.

The receiver connecting the SGC to NORAD slammed into its cradle. "Take a squad to the elevator bank on Level 16," Hammond ordered. The terrorist who thought the SGC an easy target had never encountered SG-1. "Goa'uld or not, I want this man in custody, Colonel."

Jack was already gone.

* * *

Red lights, flashing. Loud noise, hellish and overwhelming.

_Hurts!_

Behind its mask, the creature howled in pain.

What was going on?

_Must-know. NOW!_

It reached back into the mind of the mask, ruthlessly tearing through for the answer. _Code Grey_ were the words booming through the torturous screeching of alarms.

_Intruder on the base,_ whispered the mind. Delight danced through the human whose mask it had taken as its own. _They know you're there,_ the human told it, gleeful.

It snarled, not caring as lips curled and skin wrinkled furiously, so thin – so close to tearing. The connection slammed closed, sending the human on the other side spiraling into blackness.

The humans knew it was there?

No other humans had found the one the mask belonged to. They didn't know _who_ it was, just that it was there.

_My chance._

It was tracking the scent through the base, deeper and deeper – but it had almost disappeared. _Ventilation,_ it knew from the human's thoughts.

But the promise on the other end of the scent still lingered.

_Mask, for my very own._

One that wouldn't split apart at the seams if it got a little careless, one that wouldn't rot away with time and use.

The human's mind-words lingered. _They know you're there._

It would use that against them.

This time it let the laugh out, loud and long.

_

* * *

_

Armory.

Jack recognized the five security guards toting P90's. _Ackart, Johnson, Watson, Brooks and Rivera._ All seasoned, though they'd never been through the 'Gate.

And one Jaffa, arming himself from their stores with cool determination. "Daniel Jackson is with Major Carter."

Relief, lightening the weight on his shoulders and focusing his mind. _SG-1 accounted for. _Jack snagged one small, plastic box from a locker, spinning the dial. "Channel Four, all teams report in!"

The walkie-talkie spat and whined for a moment before letting words through. "Team One, roger. Starting sweep of Levels 28 through 25." Stern and dour – _Boyd_.

"Team Two, Levels 24 through 21, roger." _Harper._

Pure cockiness crackled out at him. "Team Three, Ferretti's Fireballs, checking Levels 20 through 17. And lemme just say, we're gonna -"

"Listen up," Jack overrode Lou's grinning voice. "Ferretti, coordinate all teams on Channel Four, continue sweeps. Intruder suspected to have stopped on Level 16. Headed there now."

All joking vanished from the leader of SG-2. "Affirmative."

"O'Neill." Teal'c readjusted the grip of strong fingers on the P90. "Where is the intruder?"

"Elevator bank," Jack snapped, checking his Berretta. _Full clip, one in the chamber. _"Go!"

Pounding feet cleared the hallways at they raced to the stairs, lockdown procedures in effect. _Danny and Carter are in her office on 19._ The rest of the scientists on Levels 18 and 19 would lock their doors and initiate cautionary measures. The Infirmary, Commissary, and support levels were closing off all possible points of access, with blast shielding descending on the Control Room and 'Gateroom.

Jack burst through the stairwell entrance on Level 16, racing towards the elevators. _Can't have gone far._ A raised fist brought the group to a halt; Jack gave the signal to _fan out._

Men scattered through the hallways, sticking close to gray concrete walls. Every door they came across was tested; all should be locked if not in use. _Holding and isolation cells. Security command bunker. Secondary Commissary._

Half a minute went by before reports came back negative.

"The intruder does not appear to be on this level, O'Neill," Teal'c rumbled, at his shoulder.

"Security station," he decided. "Move out!"

"Sir!"

Jack sprinted forward at the call, pulling up when his eyes caught on half-open steel. The thin crack between door and jamb was utterly black. _No light from the monitors._ _Not good._ "Security station, report!"

Nothing.

Fingers swept forward, signing _caution_ and _twelve o'clock_. Silently, three security guards surrounded the entrance. Jack inched thick metal open.

Crumpled green twitched. "Nngghh . . ."

"Dammit!" Knees slid to concrete next to the downed man; a minute's check showed that except for a goose-egg on the back of his skull and bruised pride, Airman Raymer would probably be fine. "Teal'c. Take two guards, get him down to the infirmary. Keep an eye out – this guy's just proved that he's dangerous." _But a Goa'uld would probably have killed him._

"Sir!"

Jack turned. Saw dark monitors and a mess of wires, showing copper and tin where there should be only unbroken plastic. "Can you get the security feeds back up?"

Airman Ackart, the only one with a technical bent, winced over the tangle of red, yellow and black cords. "This is a mess. It's going to take awhile . . ."

"Then you three," Jack pointed to the remaining security guards, "go get Siler. We need these cameras back online now!"

"What about -"

But Jack was already around the corner and gone. _Took out the cameras so we can't see where he is. _Fingers found the walkie-talkie again as he ran. "Lou, what've you got?"

_Crackle._ "Level 27, Casey's not reporting in."

Level 27. Briefing Room and all senior staff offices, including the General's. _Dammit! _"Meet me outside the Briefing Room," he hissed into perforated plastic.

Jack ran.

Ferretti and three security guards were waiting; two had the unconscious Casey dangling limply between them. The Major indicated propped wooden panels with a grimace. _He's here._

Black Ops training slipped him silently through the Briefing Room door as the sound of the iris retracting hit his ears.

A dark jacket was tucked at the edge of window and wall, the man within staring at the US government's greatest secret. _SG-6 coming back,_ Jack realized. _SGC's in lockdown – _Harriman would only let them through if they were under fire.

_Fweeew! Fweeew!_

Staff blasts.

"I'll be damned," the man breathed.

_Click._

At the sound of the safety going off, the imposter went very still. Turned slowly, empty hands stretching upwards, giving Jack his first good look at . . . Spiky hair, biker boots, and the faintest gleam of danger in green eyes. He looked barely of age with their recruits, younger even than SG-1's linguist.

_What the hell?_

"You can say that again," Jack snapped.

_

* * *

_

Left, right, left, right, left . . .

Hands solidly curled around steel rungs, Sam risked a peek between his sneakers.

_God, how far down does this shaft go?_

He'd been climbing for what felt like forever. Readjusting the duffle on his shoulder, the weight of silver-loaded handguns tugged relentlessly on Sam's arms and back. Something angular jabbed insistently at his kidney. _The journal, probably._ _Maybe the EMF-meter._

Taking another breath, Sam continued his descent. _Twenty-odd sublevels. Great._

Disabling the alarms topside had been easy enough with the steps Dean had made him memorize, apparently straight from the mysterious contact his brother avoided naming. _And we have him to thank for the blip in satellite coverage as well. Supposedly._

That had to have been one hell of a favor Dean had called in.

_"Hey, it's Dean. April '05, remember?" His brother went silent as the voice on the other end apparently did. "You said you had to go to Cheyenne Mountain. I need to get in there."_

_Sam couldn't make out the protests, but the noise of the man on the other end of the line carried enough to have him peering over the screen of his laptop, curious. His older brother looked like he was gearing up to rip apart sheet steel with his hands. _

At that point, Dean had taken the conversation out to the motel's parking lot. Only the guy on the other end knew what he'd said, but he'd come back into their ridiculous outer-space-themed room with everything short of NORAD's exact specs. Which were waiting in an email account instead.

Shaking hair free of blue-green eyes, Sam peered closely at the next hatch he passed. Sublevel 7. _Ten more to go . . . _

The floorplans had a level of detail that that gave Sam at least some idea about this contact – whoever it was had government connections that made Henrickson look like chump change. Sublevel 17 was revealed to be mostly unused storage space, waiting to be converted into whatever the facility needed. _Perfect for us._ By the time he got there, Dean should have the security cameras offline.

_"How do you know the skinwalker's even in there, anyway?" Sam demanded. _

_Oil glistened on the shotgun's barrel; Dean whisked a cloth over black metal one more time. "Look, Sammy, this thing's pattern so far is to snatch someone from the Mountain and take their life over. Even if Cunningham got away, it still has the same goal."_

There was something in here the skinwalker wanted, and in five weeks, hadn't uncovered. _And we need to find it first._ According to Dean's source, the skinwalker's goal would most likely be between Sublevels 11 and 28 – which, from all the public sources Sam could find, didn't even exist.

The only thing he could find were vague references to something called Project Bluebook, or Area 52. _I really don't like the sound of that._ At least it explained their motel room.

Rubber skidded off metal – muscles locked, heart screaming. Sam's gasp echoed down the shaft. _Dammit-!_

The flailing foot found purchase.

Air eased into his lungs; Sam's heart sank from throat to rib cage, where it belonged.

A worse slip, and there would be nothing between him and a twenty-story fall.

At least it looked like the shaft was under good maintenance – there wasn't a speck of rust on the ladder. Which meant that it was checked fairly often. _God._

But he knew Dean. The people in the Mountain would be kept too busy – _distracted_ – for something as mundane as routine upkeep.

Which was one of the reasons his brother had insisted on doing this _his_ way, instead of using Sam's plan. Dean hadn't said anything about how his younger brother would be the one in trouble if Sam's plan had gone wrong; instead, his older brother had argued tactics as if Sam wouldn't see the worry underneath.

Three more rungs, and the sign for another hatch was within sight. _Okay, Level 14._

He was almost there.

Which was when the faint _hmmm_ of power cut out, and darkness swept through the shaft.

**

* * *

**

**A/N2: **'Code Grey' is generic hospital code for a violent person without a weapon.


	4. Chapter 4

"Major Carter?" General Hammond shot a glance Jack's way, but Colonel O'Neill continued to wear a track in the carpet. Daniel's lips pursed.

Jack was prowling the darkened Briefing Room with all the intensity of a caged animal, expression fierce in the emergency lighting powered by backup generators. _I haven't seen him this unsettled since . . . _Well, it had been awhile. _Mairin, maybe._

Daniel looked toward Sam in time to see the astrophysicist take a breath. "The name on his Visitor's Pass was Dean Winchester." Said man was currently sedated and in Janet's capable hands, being subjected to an MRI and blood test at the very least.

"I take it that's not a good thing?" Daniel asked. Half an hour since SG-6's untimely arrival, under fire from Jaffa encountered on P3X-358, and the intruder's capture – and the SGC was quietly panicking. _Or not-so-quietly, in Jack's case._

It wasn't like he wasn't unsettled, but – they'd caught him, and no one was hurt. _Unless you count Raymer's and Casey's pride. Thank the gods Aldwin isn't here._ Of the two Tok'ra, having Jacob witness to this mess was better by far than having to worry about needing to straighten up a political disaster about the SGC's security with the High Council later. _Selmac at least is discreet. _

But then the power had died, leaving them dependent on backup generators and Siler working overtime to get the nightmare straightened out. _Cameras will be out for even longer._

"It could be worse," she admitted. Blue eyes flicked to the Briefing Room's projector with a look of longing, fingers flying over computer keys.

The astrophysicist was forced to turn her laptop around, revealing the picture spanning the right side of the screen. Bright green eyes over a smattering of freckles looked out from the yearbook photo. _Spring Grove High School_ was written beneath. _Dean Winchester, Class of 1997._

Attention on the computer, Sam launched into her spiel. "Dean Matthew Winchester was born on January 24, 1979, to John and Mary Winchester. His younger brother Samuel was born on May 2, 1983. They lived in Lawrence, Kansas, at the time. Exactly six months after the younger son was born, Mary Winchester was killed in a fire that started in the baby's nursery."

Daniel winced. _Gods._

"John Winchester?" Surprise colored his tone as the General frowned. "I know that name."

"I'm not surprised, sir." Sam chewed the inside of one cheek. Hit a button on the laptop – and a dark-haired man appeared with more years in his eyes than showed on his face. "He was a First Lieutenant in the Marines from '70 to '78. Force Recon, Echo Company."

_Um . . . what?_ Daniel pushed his glasses up, peering closely at the picture.

Blue eyes caught his puzzlement; Sam explained. "Marine special forces. They perform highly specialized, small-scale, high-risk operations."

The archaeologist blinked. "Oh."

Jack grunted. "What next?"

A sigh drifted from the astrophysicist. "The father and two sons made it out alive, not even suffering smoke inhalation. But they practically drop off the map after that. The only way to track them is through schools the boys went to – and they traveled all across America, never staying anywhere for longer than four months."

"How long did this go on, Major?" Disapproval, from a man who had raised children of his own. Daniel darted a glance at the General, though the man's face was impassive.

"From what I can tell, sir, it's still going on."

Daniel felt his jaw sag, and snapped his mouth shut.

"I found registration and insurance for a 1967 Chevy Impala going to a PO Box in Kansas, but I can't find any of the Winchesters registered as voters or taxpayers anywhere. John Winchester doesn't show up as having a job anytime after quitting his business following his wife's death. He's not even pulling pay through unemployment." And with Sam's affinity for computers coupled with all the resources of the US government, Daniel knew she should have found something. "Then I looked at academic and police records."

The shine in brown eyes said _bingo_; Jack dropped into the chair directly to the right of General Hammond's. "And?"

"And in 2002, Sam Winchester was accepted to Stanford University, on a full ride."

Jack whistled.

Teal'c, sitting quietly at the archaeologist's side, leant forward. "Stanford University?"

"It's a prestigious college in Palo Alto, California," Daniel put in. "They only consider the best applicants, in terms of academic and athletic records and test scores."

"Getting in is not exactly easy. And getting in for free is very, _very_ hard," Jack added. The Colonel's attention shifted back to Sam. "So he's the family genius?"

"He's not the only one." Blonde hair tilted as the astrophysicist pointed back at the screen. "A few months after his younger brother started at Stanford, Dean took the SATs. Scored in the 99th percentile, and was accepted to MIT."

"Huh. No scholarship?" Jack joked.

"MIT doesn't offer them," Daniel replied, fingers tapping against solid oak. "Financial aid, probably." _Definitely. He's – he's homeless._

"Definitely," Sam's voice mirrored his thoughts. "And from what I can tell from his file, he never went to classes. Turned all of his assignments in online or through the mail, and showed up for all the exams, but he wasn't actually _in_ Boston for the greater parts of the semester."

"So?" Jack slouched, fingers tapping at the oaken table.

"So he was a registered junior during his fourth semester there." The look Sam gave her computer was hard to decipher. Daniel felt his forehead wrinkle. _That's . . . impressive. _"And after he showed up to one exam badly beaten, the school took interest."

"Beaten?" General Hammond frowned darkly.

"Three cracked ribs, assorted cuts and bruises, strained muscles, and a minor concussion," the astrophysicist reported. "According to Massachusetts General Hospital."

"Yow," Jack muttered, apparently despite himself from the twist of lips that followed. "Bar fight?"

_I bet._ Daniel snorted, visions of his one – and only – bar fight still embarrassingly clear.

"That was his excuse," the astrophysicist turned the laptop back towards herself, the noise of tapping keys filling the room. "He passed the exam, and refused to say anything. Since he was a legal adult, there wasn't much the school could do. That was in April 2005. About a year later, things get interesting."

Sam didn't look intrigued, however, she looked upset.

_I don't like the sound of that._ "What happened?" Daniel shifted against plush leather padding.

"Early May 2006, Dean's brother Sam's apartment caught fire. His girlfriend, Jessica Moore, whom he was living with at the time, was killed. Sam took personal leave from school, missing an interview that would probably have handed him a free ride to Stanford Law." _Wow._ "He put off graduation, and so did Dean. According to Sam's friends at Stanford, Dean took him on a road trip, to help him deal with his girlfriend's death."

_Gods. _

"Which is where the police records come in," Sam added.

A faded red brow hiked. "How exactly do those two things relate, Major?"

"Well, sir, everything up to this point was relatively minor – the younger brother didn't have a record at all, and Dean's consisted of breaking and entering, credit-card fraud, and -" Sam paused, "- grave desecration."

_Grave desecration? Breaking and entering, credit-card fraud – I could see someone doing that to survive. But –_

"Later that summer, a series of murders that took place in St. Louis, Missouri were attributed to Dean Winchester."

"The only problem is that the last victim identified her attacker from autopsy pictures," a new voice cut in. Daniel looked up to see the SGC's Chief Medical Officer close the Briefing Room door and slip into a chair next to Sam. Janet settled a manila folder against polished oak, fingers intertwining atop it.

"Wait – he was _dead?_" Jack stared incredulously. "How -"

Sam turned the laptop around.

Daniel stared, shocked, and then had to look away.

The face on the monitor was that of the boy in the high school photo – only older by ten years, and horribly pale. "The autopsy showed the cause of death to be two gunshot wounds to the chest," Janet continued. "The Medical Examiner noted that both bullets were made of pure silver."

"Okay, weird," Jack muttered. The Colonel carefully scrutinized the image.

"Well, I can definitely tell you that the man I just had moved to a holding cell is _not_ dead," Janet's lips curved a little. "Despite the . . . rather shocking resemblance."

Daniel licked dry lips. "Sarcophagus?"

Brown eyes found his, sympathetic. "No," the doctor shook her head. "The MRI showed that he's not and never was a host. There are no proteins in his blood that would indicate the past or current presence of a Goa'uld either, and no scar tissue from a symbiote. He's as human as I am."

"So he had a very good doppelgänger running around." Jack shifted against leather cushioning, a sure sign that he was getting bored.

"Agent Henrickson doesn't seem to think so," Sam interjected.

Daniel shoved his glasses up. "Who?"

"The FBI agent on the case." Blue eyes squinted into the glare of the screen.

"What case?" Jack muttered. "Murders happen, perp dies, murders stop – sounds closed to me."

Azure gaze apologetic, Sam continued typing. "Until Dean Winchester turned up alive and well with his brother in Baltimore, where they were held in connection with two murders. While Dean confessed, Sam managed to . . . remove himself from police custody." The astrophysicist's tone was wry. "The charges were later dropped. Apparently the tape recording his confession was damaged." The picture she showed this time revealed a careless smirk under shadowed eyes. Another face, with long hair and tinges of resignation, was next to Dean's. _His brother. Sam Winchester._

"Why would this man confess to crimes he did not commit?" Teal'c inquired, deep voice neutral.

"Probably to provide a distraction so that his brother could escape," Jack snorted. The chair he was sitting on spun idly from side to side.

_Speaking of distractions . . ._ "How _did_ he get by the security checkpoint on Level 11, anyway?" Daniel threw the question out. "No one was hurt?"

"No," Janet was quick to assure him. "Airmen Casey and Raymer are fine." A smile quirked at her lips. "Unless, of course, embarrassment does turn out to be fatal after all, in which case we should know soon enough."

The General grimaced. "Colonel O'Neill?"

"Firecrackers," Jack sighed. "The noise was enough to set off the guards upstairs, and he threw them in a trash can. Next thing Lieutenant Poletti knew, all the paper in the bin had caught fire."

Lieutenant Poletti, who almost made a living sniping at anyone without stripes on their uniform. Or for that matter, without a uniform at all. _Oh. My. _Daniel stifled a snicker.

General Hammond redirected the discussion. "Is there any way this man could be the killer the Colorado Springs police are searching for?"

"No," was the firm denial.

"Janet?" Sam blinked.

Teal'c's brow lifted.

"Private Cunningham shot her assailant at least six times, close range," the doctor settled back in her seat. "Even a Goa'uld would be dead, unless it hopped hosts. Winchester is clear. Any human would have to wear a bulletproof vest to withstand that – and even then, there would be severe bruising, cracked or possibly broken ribs. There's no sign of trauma – he's perfectly healthy, and in remarkable shape."

"Ran eleven levels in less than eight minutes," Jack muttered, words sliding out so far under his breath that Daniel barely caught them.

"You seem convinced that he's Dean Winchester as well, although there is some evidence that man is dead." From his position at the head of the table, General Hammond eyed Dr. Frasier.

From one white pocket came fold of black leather, battered and worn. Six sets of eyes followed as it slid across the table. "That's what he calls himself," Janet shrugged.

Jack picked up the wallet as the General turned to Sam. "Major Carter, did you find anything that might connect Winchester with any known terrorist groups?"

Sam closed the laptop carefully. "No, sir," was the truthful reply. "But as I said before, the family dropped out from under any type of government tracking twenty-two years ago. Census data, Social Security, insurance payments – pretty much everything. From what information I _did _find, most of which is recent, there's no connection; but just because I didn't find it doesn't mean it isn't there."

_They've all seem to be overlooking one thing . . ._ "If he's not a Goa'uld, and he's not a terrorist," Daniel felt it needed to be clearly pointed out. "Then what's he doing here?"

"He should be awake by now," Jack's smile was all teeth, wallet brandished in one hand. Brown eyes darted at Janet, who nodded. "Why don't we go ask him?"

_

* * *

_

Level . . . 17. Thank God.

Low, green-tinged lighting had kicked on almost as soon as the power had cut, but it had been significantly darker in the shaft. Dark enough that Sam had been forced to count every rung, straining his eyes for the next hatch as his sense of distance got shot straight to hell.

Metal shifted under his fingers; another tight twist unlocked the hatch.

Hanging half-off the ladder, Sam pressed one hand against the door, testing. _Opens out into the hallway,_ the gentle shift of sheet steel told him. _Careful._

Yeah, Level 17 was supposed to be deserted, normally. But Dean had set out to throw the whole damn Mountain – NORAD, secret sublevels and all, into a frenzy; knowing his brother, he'd succeeded, and then some. _Not like Winchesters were ever good at 'normal' anyway._

But his cell had vibrated once, near Level 6, which meant the cameras were down. So all he had to worry about were the people. _Jumpy Marines,_ a voice in the back of his head corrected. _With guns._

But the hallway was as empty as he could hope for.

Sam squirmed through the hatch, tugging the duffle behind him and unable to silence the sigh of relief as his toes hit firm concrete. _Brighter here, too._ Not by much, but enough that the muscles in his face relaxed some.

_Down to the end of the hallway, right, second left, then another right._ It would bring him to a large, enclosed storage space. Dean's contact had noted that it had last been used as housing for foreign diplomats – _Under a few thousand tons of rock?_ – but could also be converted into an indoor firing range.

Which meant supplies, outside of a locked armory that would be heavily guarded.

Pressed tight against chill concrete, Sam snuck a glance around the corner into the next corridor. _Empty._ Quick steps took him around into the next hallway. _No cover._ And it made him uneasy.

_Why did the power cut out?_

It definitely _hadn't_ been part of their plan; the specs showed the distribution grids and internal generators on Levels 8 and 9. There would have been no way Dean would have been able to disrupt those systems in any way for as long as they needed, and still get to the cameras to ensure freedom of movement after the electrical systems were fixed.

Pausing at the next junction, Sam slipped one hand into his hoodie pocket for the picks.

_So obviously something else is going on._

It was a top-secret facility; things happened down here the government didn't want getting out. Dean's source had hinted that there might very well be other things going on, with the unspoken caveat to _stay clear._

_I just hope we don't get caught up in it._

The door he wanted was exactly ten feet from the final turn into the hallway. Shifting left, a light almost directly overhead gave Sam a beautiful view of the lock. White teeth flashed against the darkness. _Sweet._

Horizontal deadlock. A Schlage, which meant he couldn't bump it, but it shouldn't take more than four minutes to pick unless it wasn't spring-bolted; that might take ten minutes. But the level was deserted, cameras down – _Got all the time I need._

Dean claimed to have sprung a non-spring-bolted horizontal deadlock in under eight minutes. Sam checked his wrist before sliding the picks in – he had a record to break.

_There._ First tumbler, almost ridiculously quickly.

Gently jimmying the lock, Sam kept both eyes peeled, frequently checking both ends of the corridor. The second was a little harder to find, and he spent two whole minutes searching for the third. Fourth, and – _C'mon, c'mon . . . _

_Click._

Spring-bolted after all. _Three minutes, twenty-eight seconds._ Not bad.

Sam slipped into the room, steel softly shutting in his wake. Digging in the duffle produced a flashlight, the strong beam illuminating crates stacked back against the walls, leaving about twenty feet of space across the middle of the room.

Duffle met concrete with a muffled _thunk._

Cross-legged on chill cement, Sam pulled out a handgun loaded with silver bullets. Habit had him carefully checking chamber and safety before slipping it in his back waistband. Silver knife was strapped to his ankle, extra clips tucked deep into his pockets.

_They catch me, and I'll be lucky if they don't shoot me as soon as they see what I'm packin'. _

But when they were hunting, that was always a risk.

The silence of his own breaths, echoing in empty space, hit him. _Dean._

His watch-face glowed out at him. 11:12 AM.

_Thirty minutes._

Then Sam was going to go find his brother.

_

* * *

_

Know it's here. Close. Where?

Darkness was good, better, best. Not sharp, stabbing sunlight or the harsh, painful lights humans used to banish the night.

It dragged a hand across smooth concrete, slipping down the dark hallway. _Here? Where?_

Back in the deeper levels now, done with leaving the power systems a ragged mess of molten wire and torn computer guts. _Humans don't like the shadows._

It could smell more clearly in thick darkness, now that the fans had stopped turning, sucking air and _scent_ away. The trail led, in drips and drabs and the occasional clear stretch, around these corridors.

_Must find!_

It stopped at the elevators.

_Was here._

But that meant –

_Fury_ washed it again, bottomless and crimson-deep. _Scent_ had been in the elevators, and could have gone _anywhere._

No, not anywhere. The scent hadn't hit open air outside the rock prison where the humans strode through their burrowing tunnels, thinking themselves safe. _Still here._

But where?

_Deeper._

Deeper, where the musk of the earth was pounded out by steel and cement and antiseptic, cocooning the source of _scent_ away from the world. Away from it.

Searching the human's memories provided an alternative to riding the moving boxes that shifted to the whim of glowing buttons on every floor. _Stairs._

The scent wasn't in this rigidly spiraling corridor plunging deeper, but that didn't matter. It would search until it found the source.

_So close, so close!_

Loosing a laugh that felt almost . . . _natural_, it slipped into the stairwell.

_

* * *

_

Smack!

Winchester barely even twitched. Green eyes flicked to the wallet, practically vibrating on the thin metal table, then back to Jack. "Thanks. I was wondering where that'd gone."

_Midwest,_ Jack decided, recognizing the faint accent. Flecked with Texas, vowels rounded by a little bit of California. Spending so much time in Minnesota did have some unexpected benefits. "Dean Winchester."

"Yeah?"

_He's good. _The kid had it down. Just a hint of smug grin hidden under a veneer of _can-I-help-you-officer_ politeness, nothing more than the whisper of an implication. _And an attitude problem a mile wide._

A carton of cigarettes, half-shredded and more than a bit singed, dropped to the table next to black leather. The smell of sodium bicarbonate hit Jack's nose.

"Smoking kills," Winchester deadpanned. Spiky hair tilted; light glinted gold off an amulet strung on the same kind of leather cord that twined around one wrist.

Better to hit him in the face with it, see how the kid reacted. "You were convicted of murdering two people in St. Louis," Jack snapped. Carter had run the prints Janet had gotten them, and shown him Winchester's full police record. Not that impressive. But not inconsiderable either. _Especially with murder charges added to the list._

"Never had a trial," Winchester shrugged back. A smirk appeared, cocky and self-assured. "And I'm pretty sure I was dead at the time."

"Yeah, I guess you were," Jack scratched thoughtfully through gray-shot brown strands. "And dead people can't go to school, can they?"

"You'd be surprised," was the low response.

_What the hell does that mean?_

"Not schools like MIT," the Colonel ran right over the words. "Not if you've got murder on the record. What's the academic penalty for that, anyway? Expulsion?"

Full lips pressed tight. "Wouldn't know."

"Right." Jack leant back against concrete, folding his arms. "Being dead and all." Hiked his brows toward the ceiling, inquiring, but didn't bother to keep the question casual. "What are you doing here?"

The silence was so thick Jack found himself listening for crickets.

And Winchester refused to break it.

_He's _very _good._

The pressure would usually crack people open, silence weighty enough to have them pouring forth words just to fill it. Instead, the kid settled handcuffed wrists on the table and made no move to reclaim his wallet.

_Different angle, then._

"Lieutenant John Winchester, Echo Company," Jack mused. "Wonder what he'd think of his kid breaking into a top-secret government facility?"

Freckles stood out starkly against suddenly pale skin.

Everything up to this point had been an act, but now Jack could see lifeblood exposed. Still, the reaction was _off_ –

"Go to hell," the kid snarled, eyes raging.

Senses honed by Black Ops training vibrated, gently. _Something_ in the set of that jaw pulled Jack up short, reassessing. _Dangerous._

Dean Winchester had killed.

The knowledge was there, bright in green eyes, aimed directly – _honestly?_ – at him.

But there wasn't anything . . . else. Not that he would expect to see from a rampant serial killer. _Not amusement, or confidence in his own omnipotence._ Jack had known his share of psychopaths – _Ra, Apophis, Makepeace_ – and those were the two things they all had in common.

So just who _was_ this kid, anyway?

"I want to know what you're doing here," Jack kept his own voice quiet, the edge of menace something that had brought him alive out of Iraq.

Winchester stilled, wariness rising in the line of jacket-covered shoulders.

"Think about it. You've broken into a secure government affiliation, armed with explosives. That puts you on par with every terrorist organization on the planet." At the door, Jack met the blank expression with one of his own. "What do you know about the Geneva Convention?"

Metal slammed on the quick intake of breath, but not before Jack heard it. He gave a nod to the guard stationed outside the holding cell, and got two steps before being pounced on by an inquisitive archaeologist.

"How'd it go?"

A grimace worked its way across his face. "Pretty much how I expected." Jack looked the linguist over. _Oh, for crying out loud -_

Determination gleamed in blue eyes. "I'd like to try to talk to him."

_No way._ Jack shook his head. "Civilian or not, Danny, he's a killer."

"You don't -"

"I'm not talking about the charges in St. Louis." _Carter and the Doc already ripped the evidence for those to shreds, anyway._ He stepped forward, one hand flapping down the hall at the holding cell door and the man locked behind it. "But that kid's killed."

"And if we can't find out why he's here, what're we going to do?" Expressive hands moved, the linguist falling into step as Jack rounded the corner. "He's seen the Stargate. What're the options, Jack? Lock him up for the rest of his life?"

Firmly out of earshot of the holding cell, Jack spied the General, Carter and Teal'c bunched against one curving wall.

_He is on the FBI's Most Wanted . . . _The bulb over his head lit up. "No."

Chestnut brows shot upwards; Daniel blinked. "You want to _recruit_ him?"

_In a manner of speaking, I guess. _"It's worth a shot," Jack shrugged. Got a good glimpse of Teal'c's face, reading the anger that was all-but-hidden in impassive features unless you knew him well enough to look. Tension twisted Carter's mouth into a frown.

"Colonel O'Neill."

"Sir?"

The General cast an indecipherable glance in the direction of the holding cell. "It seems today's fiasco hasn't gone unnoticed by Washington."

_Oh, crap._

"General Bynard apparently reported in as soon as he alerted us."

The archaeologist sucked in a breath. "Isn't there some way we can -"

"The Pentagon has decided to investigate via Major Davis," Hammond's words were clipped. The Commander-in-Chief of the SGC met Jack's gaze, steady as a sniper's rifle. "He's already on the way."

**

* * *

**

**A/N: **I was recently gifted with a piece of FanArt for this fic, depicting the beginning of the scene directly above. It is archived at my livejournal, which you can get to by clicking the 'homepage' link on my bio. Do check it out; the artist's skill is quite amazing!


	5. Chapter 5

_Clank._

Dean gave it a good five minutes for the officer to get out of sight before reaching for his wallet. This was going to be damn hard if they'd gone through it at all. _Gotta still be here - _

Narrow wire, wrapped around tissue-thin pieces of paper, met questing fingers.

_Sweet._

Inside of a minute he had the paperclip in one hand and the receipts tucked back in black leather. It was the work of a few seconds to untwist metal folds and slide one end into the lock on his cuffs.

_Clink._

He caught the cuffs before they hit the table, steel hitting off the silver ring on his right hand. Dean put his boots under him, and pushed.

_Whoa._

The room did a lazy loop before settling back where it belonged; he swallowed his stomach back down. Whatever they'd given him to knock him out while they took blood and God only knew what else, it was good and it wasn't gone just yet. He'd only found the one needle-mark in his elbow.

Steadier, Dean paced the tiny cell, forcing the fuzziness from brain and bloodstream. The watch on his wrist read 12:17. _Where's –_

_Thud._

The door's window was too high and small for him to see much of anything with only emergency lighting to go by; Dean pressed himself carefully against cold cement instead, waiting for the shift of metal on hinges. A voice came through first.

"Dean?"

Relief, tempered by wariness. "Sam!"

Metal opened, and overlong brown hair hung into worried blue-green eyes. Sam's face relaxed, just a little, at seeing him on his feet and apparently fine. "Come on."

Together, they dragged the guard into the holding cell, dumping limp limbs on the narrow cot and positioning the man's face toward the wall. A blanket over him, and he became an indistinguishable lump.

"Here." His brother was focused on the gig, now, bringing his full stubborn intensity to the job at hand.

Dean took the gun, fingers and habit checking the safety. In the chamber, silver gleamed at him. He tucked it at his back. _Time to blow this joint._

"Let's go," Sam breathed.

Unconscious guard locked away behind them, Dean followed Sam, doing his best to make biker boots as silent as sneakers. _Okay, so the funky lighting isn't just mood-setting for the interrogation room. _"Dude, what's up with the power?"

"I think the shifter cut it," was the terse answer. Sarcasm wasn't far behind. "What, you didn't notice when the lights went out?"

_No. _A scowl flirted with existence. "They drugged me," he muttered. "I was out for 'bout a half-hour, I think."

Sam sucked in a deep breath, sliding from insult to concern in the space of half a heartbeat. "They _what?_"

"Only took some blood, I'm pretty sure." Dean's hand went to the crook of his opposite elbow, rubbing. "Don't think they hit me with anything." _I hope._

"That's – that's _illegal_ -"

A snort worked its way past his lips. Dean checked behind them, seeing only an empty corridor. "That's not the half of it. You should see the bottom level on this place, man, I don't know what the hell they're doing down here, but I'm betting illegal isn't the half of it." _Top-secret, more like._

"Huh." Sam peered around the next corner, readiness in every line of his body. "We're clear."

_Okay. Good a place to stop as any._ "You got the EMF-meter?"

"Yeah." His little brother darted him a grin.

Dean smiled back. _Pays to be prepared._ It wouldn't normally be of any use, this place would be buzzing with energy, but residuals or not, the shifter had accidentally helped them out. _Good for us. Very, very bad for it._

Black wires unwound from the battered Walkman casing. Sam handed it over. "How long do you think we have?"

"Not long," Dean grimaced. "Emergency generators mean there's going to be some backup noise on this," he lifted the EMF-meter. "But they're going to want to pull the main grid back online immediately, unless the shifter really screwed it over. An hour, maybe."

"And the cameras?"

This time, he didn't reign in the smirk. _They won't be fixin' _that_ in a hurry._ "Six more hours. At least." _With any luck, we'll be gone by then._

"Alright," Sam switched places, taking over rearguard. "Let's get to work."

* * *

Blue jell-o wiggled.

The astrophysicist dug her spoon in, lips curving. _If the event horizon were food, this is what it would look like._ _Mmmm._

Muttering unpleasantly, green BDU's encasing SG-1's archaeologist slumped to the bench at her side.

She winced. "Any luck?"

"No," Daniel growled. Blue eyes behind the shielding of his glasses were distant, the mind underneath moving at impossible speeds. "Not in your office. Liz is still checking Storage on 26, which is a lot harder with the power out. None of the rest of SG-5 have any idea where the artifacts were routed, but I couldn't find Major Wexler, so he might be able to tell me something when I do."

The archaeologist poked glumly at the sandwich he'd snagged before joining her. He hadn't had much time to track the artifacts down; between this morning's . . . _activity_, and then the briefing and the Colonel's questioning, it was already lunchtime. Daniel's scowl deepened as he stared at the food.

_Uh-oh. Cranky archaeologist at twelve o'clock. _Normally easy-going, Dr. Jackson's occasional bouts of true anger were rare. And legendary. "They'll turn up in someone's office," Sam assured him. "A label probably got switched with the messaging department." _It's happened before. _There were only about five Airmen who worked in Messaging on anything approaching a regular basis.

Daniel hummed, head nodding thoughtfully. "How's the metal analysis from P5M-K58 coming?"

Sam perked up. "It's really incredible! The capacity for shielding in the upper frequencies of the electromagnetic spectrum is phenomenal." The spoon, free of blue jell-o, lifted to etch a graph into the air. "I can't wait to get back pictures from the scanning-electron microscope from the Chem guys. X-ray diffraction showed that the structure wasn't crystalline." Another spoonful of jell-o made its way between moving lips. _Mmmm. Yum._

"I thought crystals were the most tightly-packed molecular structure," Daniel frowned. Cellophane crinkled, peeling from bread and lettuce to lie limply on the table as the archaeologist freed his sandwich.

"Generally," Sam agreed through a mouthful of dessert. _And if it's really shielding gamma rays, the atoms should be as tightly packed as possible even if they are lightweight. _Tray empty, she slid it in front of the empty bench-space at her side. Rolled the last bite of sugary gelatin over her tongue, and swallowed. "But there's a gradient even within that definition; loosely packed crystals exist, generally when more than one type of atom is involved and the nucleus size differs between them."

The bite of sandwich was washed down with coffee. Daniel's head tilted. "So it could still be crystalline if the metal is an alloy, and not pure?"

"That's what -"

_"SG-1 to the Briefing Room. SG-1 to the Briefing Room."_

Sam pushed clear of the bench; behind her came the _shush_ of plastic as Daniel re-wrapped his sandwich. She hit the commissary entrance at a trot – "Ow!"

"Move," grunted the solid person who'd barreled into her.

Sam got a glimpse of angry brown eyes under buzzed blond before the shorter man stepped rudely around her surprised sprawl on concrete. _Geez. What's his problem?_ Yeah, everyone at the SGC was entitled to a bad day, but it didn't really rank as such unless it was a save-the-world crisis or the approach of imminent disaster. _Stuff like lost car keys doesn't exactly make the scale. _And while the whole base had been on tenterhooks, first from the Tok'ra and then from Winchester, news of the Pentagon's interest couldn't have traveled _that_ fast.

"Sam, are you okay?" Daniel's hand latched onto her arm, helping her up from hard cement. "What's wrong with Tony?" Blue eyes frowned at the Major's retreating back.

"No idea," she huffed. Shot the archaeologist a smile at his concern, and brushed herself down. That was the good thing about BDU's – low maintenance in the extreme. _And durable._

Sergeant Harriman's voice carried over the intercom once more. _"General Carter to the Briefing Room."_

_Oh, no._ This really was turning out to be one of those days.

"Tok'ra," Daniel sighed.

_

* * *

_

_'It's very unlikely the High Council decided to back down,' _the symbiote warned. Seeing them coming, a Private was holding the elevator open.

_'I know,'_ Jacob thought back. That meant this was going to be a very interesting situation for them, especially. _Interesting, as in the old Chinese curse._ His second thought was directed toward Selmac. _'I'd hoped they would take longer.'_ He nodded to the woman, slipping into the empty car and hitting the button for Level 27.

With the SGC experiencing a power fluctuation that had the entire base terse and irritated, the speed of the High Council's response didn't bode well.

The mental equivalent of a sigh filtered through his neurons. _'The time-travel device is -'_

_'- a disaster in the making, and has been since Anise came up with the idea,'_ Jacob interrupted. It was only a matter of time before their own ingenuity came back to bite them in the ass. Getting the High Council to abandon centuries of research, especially with Anise pushing for it, was going to be difficult. _Unless we can convince SG-1 to help._

The SGC's premier team did have a . . . unique way of solving these kinds of problems. Dr. Jackson's skills were the most utilized with the Tok'ra, but that wasn't their only route. Get Colonel O'Neill riled enough, and the troublesome device might find itself having an "accident" before even getting through the 'Gate.

_'That would certainly solve the problem,'_ Selmac's humor curved their mouth, unconcerned in the empty elevator with anyone seeing. _'But only temporarily.'_

Shoulders bumped up against metal as they leant into the corner. Gravity pulled at them; the lift was slowing._ 'That damn thing is too dangerous to play with.'_ But it wasn't Selmac who needed convincing.

_'It's dangerous enough that getting Garshaw to give up on it is going to be almost impossible, Jacob.'_

Elevator doors opened on his burgeoning frustration. _'Good point.'_

The walk to the Briefing Room, always short, was in thoughtful silence.

General Hammond was waiting, though SG-1 had yet to gather. "Jacob."

"George."

Then friendliness faded to diplomacy; Jacob nodded at Aldwin.

At the opposite end of the table, the Tok'ra had fingers intertwined on polished oak. _At least he came alone._ Anise had been persona non grata since the armbands incident, but neither she nor Freya had the social adeptness to appreciate that fact.

_'At least Garshaw does,'_ Selmac remarked.

They would see about that. Aldwin wasn't exactly a favorite at the SGC either, since Netu.

The Tok'ra Ambassador to Earth gave a quiet mental sigh, and slipped into a plush chair exactly halfway between Hammond and Aldwin. _Politics._

It was a moment later before his daughter and Daniel came through the door, Teal'c on their heels. O'Neill swaggered in last, and one look at the team positioned defensively at the General's end of the table was enough to have Jacob hiding a wince.

"So. Aldwin. What'd the High Council have to say?"

Trust Colonels to rush in where Generals feared tread.

His fellow Tok'ra remained impassive. _This isn't going to go well._ "The High Council cannot withdraw its petition for aid," was the stiff response. "The importance of the time-travel device and its potential as a weapon against the System Lords cannot be lost."

"Yeah, that's what we figured," O'Neill drawled.

_Thump._

Jacob's brows threatened to rise.

Selmac sounded amused. _'Did Dr. Jackson just kick -'_

Judging from the pained expression on Jack's face, the answer to that was a resounding 'yes'.

"And our position has not changed," Hammond replied, his own posture a mirror of Aldwin's. _Folded hands, bland tone, and all. _"It would be extremely ill-advised for us to send a team into a situation where the enemy has the advantage in numbers and information."

Jacob leant forward, opening his mouth –

"The High Council agrees."

_'What?'_ echoed in his brain.

"I have been sent to more fully inform you of the situation," Aldwin held out a small holographic projector, pyramid faces gleaming a dull obsidian. "If I may?"

Jacob suddenly remembered to snap shut his jaw.

With a moment's attention, the small device revved to life, expelling the features of a stern, dark-skinned host, light gleaming off gold and oiled skin. "The System Lord Olokun," Aldwin shifted the device closer to the center of the Briefing Room table.

"Olokun." Dr. Jackson's glasses reflected light from the hologram, which was easily the brightest thing in the emergency-lit room. "The first deity in Yorùbá mythology, god of the oceans and rivers."

"That's it?" Sammie, who looked suddenly embarrassed for blurting something out in front of her superiors.

Jacob caught O'Neill arching an eyebrow in his daughter's direction, and let Selmac stifle his protectiveness. Sammie could take care of herself.

"It's . . . it just doesn't sound ominous enough, sir," was her response to the questioning glance

"Ahhh, it is," Daniel tapped a long finger against the projector, curious. "In many mythologies, flowing water symbolizes both a barrier and transition. For example, the Greeks had the River Styx as one of three rivers barring entrance to the Underworld; . Egyptian mythology holds the first part of the afterlife to be a boat journey to the Hall of Judgment. Water is seen in many other ancient religions as being the key to transitioning from the world of the living to the world of spirits."

Hands spread, O'Neill blinked.

"The System Lord Olokun is a god of death," Teal'c rumbled, deep voice blunt.

His daughter gaped for a moment. "Oh."

"This is true," Aldwin interrupted. "The repercussions, should Olokun gain control of this time-travel device, are incalculable. In exchange for aid, the Tok'ra are willing to provide all intelligence from our agent within Olokun's ranks, as well as all pertinent information regarding the time-travel device."

Holy Hannah, the High Council must want the device back more than he knew. _'There's a mission planned,'_ Jacob realized. Their spy among Olukun's forces must have contacted the High Council. _We weren't informed._

_'There must be,'_ Selmac agreed.

A mission that should undoubtedly be part of the need-to-know of the Tok'ra's Ambassador to the Tau'ri.

They'd heard nothing. _Why?_

_'We must speak with Aldwin,' _Selmac's mind-voice was grave.

As a first step? Definitely. The High Council, though, would have all the answers. _'At least we have some time.'_ It would take more than the offer currently on the table to sway Hammond.

True to form, the SGC's commander never wavered. "That will be taken into consideration."

"Very well." And then Aldwin was standing, reaching for the projector. Jacob blinked light spots out of his eyes, looking past lingering afterimages of the System Lord's face into the Briefing Room. "I must return to Vorash. Selmac will bring your response."

_Dammit._ Jacob stood as well, hiding clenched fists behind his back. Aldwin couldn't miss the sizzling glare that slanted his way from the older Tok'ra, he just didn't react.

'H_e's very confident the SGC will give in to our request,'_ Selmac murmured, training their eyes on the information disk that changed hands twice before ending up in Dr. Jackson's care.

_'And he knows we want to talk to him, and he's running,'_ Jacob growled back.

_'As a General, you don't appreciate a strategic retreat?'_ the symbiote teased.

_'Not when the only way to route him is too messy to employ with tact. Damned politicians.'_

"Dad."

"Hey, Sam," Jacob pulled a smile out for his daughter, noting Aldwin's swift departure. _Later,_ he thought firmly. He'd spent the last few hours home sleeping off the slight time-change. Now was time to spend with Sammie. "How're you doing?"

"Good." Hands linked behind her as they moved from the Briefing Room back toward the elevators. "I'm working on a metal analysis from SG-5's last mission. You wouldn't believe this stuff, it's -"

Her happy voice washed over him as she expounded theories from the elevator to her office's level without pause. _I wonder where she got it from._

They were almost in her workroom when it happened. With a sudden _hmmm,_ power surged all around them, the lights suddenly almost blinding.

"Great," Sam smiled, blue eyes bright. _Her mother's eyes._ "Siler must have fixed the power grid."

Something moved, in the corner of his eye, around the corner of the corridor. Dark clothing, short. _Probably just someone startled by the lights coming back on._

"Fantastic," Jacob smiled, feeling the craving that had been lingering on the back of his tongue ever since he'd stepped foot back on Earth. "Now maybe I can get a hot cup of coffee."

* * *

Voices. Angry, raised.

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

It crouched down low, ears pricked for the words ricocheting off cement walls. Distracted, hampered by painfully dazzling lights, the search had slowed. But the scent was still strong. _Must find . . . must – _

Someone gave an embarrassed murmur, too gruff to make out; steps headed down the opposite end of the corridor, away from the holding cells. Away from its hiding place.

"It looks clear enough, Jack." It knew that amused tone from the human's memories, and the mind behind its mask gave it a label. _Dr. Daniel Jackson._

"Oh, for cryin' out loud!" _Colonel O'Neill, 2IC of the SGC._ That name was harder to get, but it pushed. The human's struggles were irrelevant.

And he was struggling, now, physically as well as mentally. He would get loose eventually, but it would have the prize by then. And then the human's freedom wouldn't matter; he would be too late.

But nevermind that, nevermind – there was another on the loose?

"At least we have the power back, and Siler can move on to fixing the cameras." The younger human sighed. "Are we going into lockdown again?"

So it was _this_ one, the one that had escaped, who had sent alarms screaming before! The human mask had lied – these ones didn't know it was here. _No one_ knew it was here. Giddiness swelled through muscle and blood; it flexed its face in joy, baring white teeth. No need for such slowing care now.

"No." Cold, and calculating.

_They'll find you,_ the human whispered.

It shoved the voice away, impatient. Listening, still with that all-too-human 'smile' adorning features that would soon belong to it forever.

The Colonel again, dangerously confident. "I don't want to let him know that we know he's escaped. But we'll have everyone on the alert. We have to find him, immediately."

"How did he get out, anyway?" Curiosity, made richer by the tiny thread of anxiety through each word.

"The same way he got in here, Daniel. There's no way he could have known where to go to disable the cameras, no way he could have known exactly when and where to show up to slip by security the way he did. Someone's helping him."

A noise that might have been a swallowed gasp. It leant closer. "The NID?"

Steps, now. _Coming this way._

"With a kid whose criminal record raises every red flag in the state? Too sloppy for them."

It rose, turning down the corridor, keeping barely within earshot.

"Then – who?"

The pair turned the corridor, just as it slipped around the next corner.

"That's what we'll have to find out when we catch him." Not quite a groan. "Again."

Dr. Daniel Jackson snorted.

"I'll let Hammond know; we'll call together all the team leaders and get them to alert the rest of the base and start searching the upper levels."

"Well, in that case, I've got to find . . ." Words drifted away under the rattling and humming of power, restoring the base to life.

It settled against the cool wall, sniffing.

_Scent,_ faint and getting fainter from the cycling of the damned machines, was almost gone from this level. _Lower._

It would be gone, soon.

Then there would be only one way to find it. The human who had destroyed its previous mask. It had seen her, eating as the humans did, earlier. If it couldn't find the prize alone, if _scent_ was destroyed by the infernal machines . . .

_She will know._

_

* * *

_

Ow.

Behind concealing crates, Sam interlocked fingers behind his head, stretching out tight muscles in his back and arms. "Nothing on the upper levels." An hour's worth of nothing. At least the emptier areas had been quick to sweep.

Dean was fiddling with their EMF-meter, frown lines lying lightly over his face. "Nope. Levels 12 through 17 were clear."

Frustration was singing in every vein; he could _feel_ it. _We didn't take this risk for nothing, Dean! _"Why aren't we going lower, again?"

"Can't. Not now that the power's back." Dean didn't look up from the EMF-meter.

"Dean -"

"Dammit, Sam." The EMF-meter got shoved impatiently in one pocket as his brother finally looked up. "There're people, _everywhere,_ on Levels 18 through to the bottom. Working, talking -"

"And that's where the skinwalker's going to be, Dean!" Sam burst out, taking two steps toward the cement wall before whirling. "That's the best place for it to hide!"

"Yeah, just where we can't," was the bitter retort.

"They know what you look like, but they've never seen me," Sam tried. _Come on, Dean, it makes sense._ "I could go. Sneak into the locker rooms -"

"This is the military, Sam!" Dean's knuckles were white on the edge of the crate that separated them. Sam could see anger and something else in green eyes. "You think they didn't do a background check as soon as they pulled out my license?"

Of course they had. That was the whole point of Dean being the one to go in, to let his face get on their cameras, to cause a stir that would have more lasting effects than setting off a string of firecrackers in a trash can upstairs. They would have everything up to and including Dean's blood type by now. And Dean's brother? They would have pictures, criminal records, everything.

_But they think Dean's a solo act. They don't know that I'm here._ Even the guard at the cell hadn't seen him. "That was the plan -"

"Yeah, well, plans change. You didn't see what I saw," his brother cut him off. "No way you're going down there alone."

_Fear._

That's what was hiding in the eyes just a shade greener than his own.

_Not just fear. _Sam _knew_ that look. _He's afraid for me._

Dread unfurled in Sam's gut; he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his big brother afraid, and even facing down the Demon in their father's body didn't make the list. _Only after, when I had the gun, when it was Dad bleeding on the other end of it – _No. "What? Dean, what did you see?"

A hand lifted, scrubbing over his brother's face as he shifted around the crates, coming closer. "I don't know. A portal of some kind, I think."

That . . . wasn't what he was expecting. "A portal?" Sam asked blankly. _Portals. Gates to Heaven or Hell, yes, but_ – "Going where, exactly?" This couldn't be good.

"Wherever it went, there was no one friendly on the other side," Dean leant against dull metal, elbows resting atop the crate. "Got there in time to see a bunch of Marines shag ass out of it, and whatever was on the other end was shooting fireballs through at them."

"You're kidding." Even as he said it, Sam knew Dean wasn't. During the lulls of a job, maybe. But in a place like Cheyenne Mountain, surrounded by people and things that could take them down without even thinking about it if they weren't constantly on guard – no way.

The glare his brother sent him was unnecessary proof.

"Sorry," Sam offered. He paced to Dean's side. _Focus. Portals._ "Any idea where it went?"

"No," spiky hair shook in the negative. "But I've never seen anything like whatever was shooting those fireball-things. Not a flamethrower, or a tazer."

"Experimental weapons, maybe." Sam slouched against the crate as well, hands dipping into hoodie pockets. "We are in a top-secret facility, dude."

"This wasn't a live-fire exercise, Sam." Dean's brow was furrowed. "These guys were – they looked like they were running for their lives. And there was a medical team in the corner of the room where the portal was. They were under fire."

"Can't be," Sam said instantly.

His brother's irritation washed over him. "Why not?"

"Because that would mean we – the United States – are at war. A place like this has got to be under the President's jurisdiction. And the President can't just . . . go to war, Dean. Not without telling Congress or the people. It's not just illegal, man, it's unconstitutional."

"Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, Sammy," Dean drawled, affectionate exasperation clear in his voice. "But . . . _top-secret_?"

Blue-green eyes begged the ceiling for patience. "Doesn't matter."

"Yeah? Well, apparently it does to someone, Sam."

"Look, national secrets or not, dude, we still have a skinwalker to waste," Sam pointed out. "And the only way to finish the job is for me to go down there and find it."

"No." His brother's stubbornness set Sam's teeth to grinding; biker boots paced away from the crate, and then turned back again. "There's gotta be another way."

"You're worried about me, Dean, I get it." He couldn't give in on this. They didn't have enough _time._ "But there's no other -"

_Click._

The man who walked out from behind the crates shielding the empty room from sight of the door was shorter than both of them, blond hair buzzed short over brown eyes. The gun in his arms was one short step away from a full assault rifle; Sam's arms lifted out, away from his body.

In the corner of his eye, Sam saw his brother's hand drift down to one pocket. _No gun. The EMF-meter?_

Gaze too even, the man lifted a walkie-talkie to his lips. "Colonel O'Neill, come in."

_"O'Neill."_

Sam saw rough hatred in the man's stare, in his grip on the weapon. "Sir, Level 17, the undeveloped west end. I've found them."


	6. Chapter 6

It had lost time.

Not much, but enough that it could feel the mask dying from where teeth had sliced the skin of its lip. A numbness was spreading from the spot, skin dying, nerves atrophying as it detached from the creature beneath. _Must find it. Now!_

The damn humans had delayed it, calling a search for the escaped one. It had found them, oh yes. And only the knowledge that when it succeeded, this mask would belong solely to it and it would have to live the human's life had kept it from killing them then and there.

The rage had been delicious, almost overpowering.

But now, it knew what must be done.

There was one who knew where the prize was. She would lead it to the source of the _scent._

Ohhh, yes. The human mind behind the mask might be free, might be gloating now about coming, reaching inside the Mountain, finding and killing it. But the human forgot that it had the same memories – and once the Mountain was locked-down, no one could enter for twenty-four hours.

It swiped its tongue carefully over the break in its mask, tasting thick, sweet blood. It would have the prize, or spill all their lives in a ruby flood, trying.

_And then . . . _

* * *

Daniel's lips pursed in a silent whistle at the items laid out on the Briefing Room table. _Shotguns, handguns, lock-picks, extra ammo, and . . . a Walkman?_ But it was too busted-up, didn't look like a portable cassette player. Unless someone had wanted a miniature light-show to go with it.

The journal filled with random odds and ends – entries, pictures – was almost indecipherable. Oh, it was written in English, but the handwriting was worse than Jack's. _Speaking of. _The remaining assorted odds and ends were closer to the Colonel; Daniel could make out two wallets, a lighter, matches, and a set of keys from the not-inconsiderable pile.

"Rock salt? Water?" Jack pointed one accusing finger, then glared at the kids placed strategically opposite one another at the far end of polished oak. _And they are. Twenty-three, twenty-seven. We have new recruits that age, or older._ It took a lot to get into the Stargate Program.

"Never can be too careful," the older – Dean – drawled. The younger Winchester was silent.

Daniel didn't miss the way two sets of almost-identical eyes never left the handguns they had been relieved of. Jack hadn't either, from the wariness in the brown, telling glance that had both security guards moving in closer.

"Silver bullets," General Hammond's even voice was tight with anger. "And, Major, what is that?"

Sam was turning the Walkman over in her hands, frowning at the buttons and dials that were revealed when she slipped the protective casing off. "It's an EMF-meter, sir."

Daniel took his own seat. _Okay . . . _

"It's set to measure DC fields," she continued, puzzled. "It's a tri-axis meter, measuring in all three dimensions simultaneously. It's surprisingly sophisticated, given that it looks homemade."

At that, the younger shot his brother a look; green eyes rolled. But Dean Winchester was carefully watching every twitch of the astrophysicist's fingers over the device.

"DC fields, Carter?" Jack prompted, fists planted on hips.

"Direct current electromagnetic fields," was her response. "Fields that occur naturally in the earth's geomagnetic field, as opposed to manmade electromagnetic fields, which are usually emitted from AC – alternating current – sources. Like electrical wiring."

The flip of a switch had the meter powered down.

_Did they just –_

Daniel frowned. The Winchesters were _definitely_ more tense than they had been before; muscles bunching under layers of cotton and sweatshirt. Handcuffed hands were in plain sight, flat to the table, but some sort of silent communication was passing between the brothers that he couldn't quite –

"You use firecrackers to break into the US government's most secure facility, armed with shotguns, rock salt, water, and silver bullets? I want an explanation," General Hammond thundered, blue eyes icy. _"Now."_

"Holy water," was the quiet correction. Sam Winchester managed to look very harmless for someone who was well over six feet in height, but sincerity shone genuine in every line of his body.

"Holy water?" Daniel repeated. Found himself the considering focus of two sets of eyes. _What have they seen, that their eyes look so old?_

The archaeologist pushed up his glasses, watching.

Dean sat back in his seat, eyebrows quirking. Sam met the expression with a shrug and a pointed glance toward their end of the table; his brother shook spiky hair in response and was answered with an exasperated huff from under long bangs.

_What just happened here?_

"We weren't sure if we were dealing with a possession or a skinwalker at first," the younger brother turned more fully toward the rest of the room. "We wanted to be prepared in case we were wrong."

"And just how did _you_ get in here anyway?"

"Jack," Daniel shot him a warning glare. _You're not helping._

"Daniel." _They're crazy._ "Possession? Skinwalker?"

"There are legends of doppelgängers from most cultures of the world, Jack," Daniel shrugged. _Myths about gods tell us history of the Goa'uld._ "Most myths rise from a grain of truth." _Just listen._

"Fine," Jack bit out.

Dean smirked.

"You were saying?" the Colonel snapped, leaning forward to glare at the brothers.

This time, the older brother rose up in his chair, matching Jack's stare eye for eye. Daniel raised a brow. _If looks could kill . . ._ it would be hard to tell who would be left standing. _They'd probably leave the room decimated._

The older Winchester bit out each word as if it had committed some grievous offense. "The serial killer the cops have been chasing is a skinwalker."

_Skinwalker. Doppelgänger. A creature that takes on the appearance of a person, usually to . . . commit crimes in their name . . ._ Gods. _Isn't that what Goa'uld do? Take someone's face, and twist their lives apart?_ The archaeologist swallowed. "And what is that, exactly?"

"A shapeshifter," the younger brother shrugged. "It takes on the appearance of a person, generally after shedding its old form, kind of like a snake sheds its skin."

"Only nastier," the older added, mouth twisting in disgust. "_Way_ nastier."

"It forms a psychic link with its human victim, downloading all their memories and mannerisms to be able to mimic them perfectly," Sam continued with barely a pause. "So far, all the victims in the Colorado Springs area have been Cheyenne Mountain personnel."

_They have?_

Daniel's eyes went to Jack, but SG-1's leader was staring worriedly at Hammond; and the General was frowning. _That's really not a good sign._

"We think it's down here because you have something it wants," shoulders hidden under a hooded sweatshirt shrugged. "They can only be killed with silver bullets, and we couldn't just let it keep killing."

Daniel licked his lips, mind furiously turning over everything he'd ever heard about skinwalkers, shapeshifters, even transmogrification. _Weres, evil twins or doubles - _

Jack said what General Hammond was clearly thinking. "You're nuts."

"Right," came a skeptical drawl; Dean shot his brother a glance that was knowing and – _weary?_ "And you're down here doing deep space radar telemetry." _Tell me another one,_ the tone said.

"Actually," Major Carter, not Sam, started – all scientific knowledge and military clout, and the brothers were already bristling. _Definitely_ didn't do authority well.

_Not going to work._

Daniel interrupted, his gaze a silent apology to Sam. "What do you think we're doing here?"

"Dr. Jackson," General Hammond's warning was quiet; but he was waiting for an answer.

"Dr. Daniel Jackson?" Sam Winchester's eyes narrowed, staring off into space.

"Sam?" his brother prompted, the voice almost . . . gentle.

Realization twisted Jack's features; Daniel winced at the sudden surprise on Hammond's face.

"I know that name," the younger Winchester was staring now, fierce concentration that had Jack tensing against plush cushioning. _Oh, gods. Here we go._ "You're an archaeologist," he frowned. Peered at Daniel closely. "You got kicked out of academia a couple of years ago, after publishing a theory which suggested that 'aliens built the pyramids' . . ."

_Aaaand Dr. Jackson's academic reputation strikes again._ This time, spilling national secrets. He'd been hanging around Jack too much. _Aliens, Stargate . . . _They had all the pieces, and were smart enough to put it together. Blue eyes closed behind round lenses as Daniel waited. At least it didn't take very long.

"Son of a _bitch,_" two young voices muttered as one.

Faded red eyebrows pulled downward as Hammond frowned.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," the older Winchester continued, eyes round. "You're friggin' _planet-hopping?!_"

SG-1 stared at the Winchesters.

The Winchesters stared at SG-1.

Daniel rubbed at the headache forming behind his forehead. _And that's why they call it an 'uncomfortable' silence._

_

* * *

_

Ah, crap.

"No," Jack said baldly, ignoring the incredulous glance the archaeologist slammed him with. Of course they weren't going to believe him. But that wasn't what was important.

"Uh-huh. He's Joe Average," Dean jerked a thumb Teal'c's way, scoffing. "And I'm Ted Nugent."

"Dude." Under long bangs, the younger snorted, blue-green eyes trained on him.

Jack blinked, brain sputtering for - something. Anything.Over on the other side of shining oak littered with guns, Teal'c's eyebrow was reaching record heights.

"That's taking plausible deniability to a whole new level," Sam Winchester continued.

_He wanted to be a lawyer? That's just great,_ Jack thought sourly. "Whatever," was the best he could come up with. _Divert, now. _"You say there's a skinwalker here? Leaving out the fact that you're both crazy, prove it."

"Private Elizabeth Cunningham," was the prompt reply.

_I don't believe it._ "_She's_ your skinwalker?" Jack traded a glance with Teal'c, whose face might have been impenetrable to anyone who didn't know him well. Annoyance tried to pull his face into a scowl; Jack fought it. The big guy was _amused._

The look Dean Winchester shot him he recognized from the mirror during his teenage years. And he still knew what it meant: _No, dumbass._ God, the kid was irritating. _Punk._ And didn't _that_ thought make him feel old?

Teeth ground.

"No. She was supposed to be the latest victim. Only she managed to get away."

_How the hell do they know that?_ The cops were keeping it quiet, the news stations hadn't managed to dig it up.

"She reported that her attacker's eyes glowed. Police wrote it off as a trick of the light, playing on a traumatized woman's mind." The younger Winchester's voice was wry.

_Shit._ Glowing eyes – Cunningham's statement – the Goa'uld. But – "That police report wasn't released to the media," Jack realized.

_Ooops,_ shone clearly in blue-green eyes.

Carter leant forward, intrigued. "How did you get ahold of it?"

"And what do glowing eyes have to do with skinwalkers?" Daniel added. The archaeologist was _made_ of curiosity, Jack would swear to it.

_Rrrring._

Everyone paused at the sound of the phone going off – Hammond was on his feet, halfway back to the office with a nod to Jack. _Keep it going._

"Their eyes are what gives them away," the older Winchester neatly avoided the first question. "Usually you can only see it on camera flare with genuine skinwalkers, but there are a few different species, and details vary."

_Let him get away with it. For now._

Behind glass frosted with the dots of stars and solar systems, Hammond had pressed the black receiver intently to one ear.

Jack toyed with a few of the items in front of him, flipping the brown wallet open. A picture slid out – Sam Winchester, a sweet blonde tucked against him, both smiling with sand and surf behind them. _The girlfriend, probably._ Flipping the image revealed, in loopy handwriting, the words _Sam & Jess, Summer 2005_.

A glance upward showed that he'd snared the brothers' full attention. After a moment, the younger brother looked away.

Green eyes lasered in on him.

Jack slipped the picture back into the wallet, and set it gently aside.

The glare never wavered; Dean would gladly rip him apart for that. "So." Clearing his throat once, the colonel slouched back against comfy padding. "You've come all this way, broken into NORAD, yadda yadda. Who's your skinwalker?"

"The guy who found us on Level 17," Dean retorted, a question sparking in gold-flecked green. "Blond hair cut real short, not so tall, brown eyes, pulled you up on the walkie-talkie?"

_Major Wexler of SG-5?_ No way. "What about him?"

Crisp steps from Hammond's office interrupted. "We'll have to put a hold on this for now," he ordered.

"Sir?"

"I've just been informed that Major Wexler is topside, demanding to be let in despite the lockdown. Except the security guard up there says he's already signed in for the day, and there's no record of him signing out since then."

"Maybe the guy up there isn't him?" Jack scratched at graying strands, frowning.

"Fingerprint scans match," Hammond shook his head.

Combat boots took his weight silently against the carpet as Jack stood. "I just saw Wexler . . ." He turned, slowly, to gaze down the end of the table.

The older Winchester smirked. One cuffed hand lifted in an mocking wave. "Believe us now?"

_Ah, crap._

* * *

Dean didn't know what the hell usually happened around this place, but these people had believed them far too easily for it to be anything that fell within the parameters of "normal". _Especially for military._ But hey, they threw themselves through wormholes to other planets daily, if he was right about what he'd seen.

His brother rubbed red-marked wrists as the handcuffs were removed, and Dean fought the urge to do the same. Instead, he strode up to the head of the table, snagging the Impala's keys first thing. Sifting through his and Sam's wallets showed nothing missing; Dean tossed leather folds, and Sam snapped it out of the air with a glare for the Colonel.

A minute later and they were both refilling their pockets. _Matches, lighter - _

"Hold on just a minute." The General was an imposing man despite the fact that Dean had a few good inches on him. _Got nothing on Dad._ "I still want to know how you got such detailed information about this facility."

_Worried about a leak?_ What with what was buried down here, they damn well should be. Fingers closed on cool silver; they'd unchambered the bullets from both handguns. _At least they're smart._ Though the Colonel had a look in his eyes Dean had seen on his father sometimes – cunning and old rage, waiting to be used. "Called in a favor," Dean shrugged. _And if you think I'm telling you any more than that, you've got another thing coming._

Didn't stop the pushy blonde scientist who'd been poking at his EMF-meter. "From who?"

_I really don't think so._ "Save someone's life, they tend to be grateful," Dean retorted, taking extra care with each word. Sam was listening too, curious. "In case something like this happened, I was told to tell you that you don't need to worry; my contact isn't one of the NID. Whatever that means."

Dr. Jackson pulled in an almost-silent breath across polished oak; the blonde and the Colonel exchanged glances. The huge guy, sitting as silent and impervious as a block of stone, didn't react at all.

And something about him, outside of sheer size and muscle, made all the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up. Something that said _beware,_ and tingled warnings down his spine.

Dean reached for the silver-plated blades as Sam stretched out an arm for the handguns.

The gray-haired Colonel was on his feet, glowering. "Now wait just a -"

"Tell you what," his brother snapped. Capable hands scooped up the guns, checking each chamber and safety. "When you let CNN know you've started a war with other planets run from underneath a couple thousand tons of rock, then we can discuss my fourth amendment rights."

Dean snickered.

Within a minute, most of the weapons laid out on the table had been secreted in clothing or packed in the duffle; Dean made sure Sam had at least two extra clips and one of the knives, ignoring the way blue-green rolled in exasperation, a clear message that _I got it._

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Hunting things that go bump in the night?" Dean grinned, checking through the duffle one more time. _Twenty-two years._ "It's kinda the family business."

"Except we don't get paid," Sam murmured, absently picking up his line as he folded the journal back up and slipped it into a canvas pocket on the duffle. Sneakers wandered toward the massive window that stared down into the bottom of the facility's silo. Long fingers spread against thick glass. "That it?"

"Yeah," Dean stepped next to his brother, answering when no one else seemed to want to. "Only it was glowing blue when they turned it on. And – that thing wasn't there," he waved at spiraling, interlocking pieces of metal that closed tightly over the mouth of the massive metallic ring. _Probably some sort of shield to keep things they don't want in here from coming through._ From the way the pieces joined in the middle, it looked to be retractable –

"We call it the Stargate," the archaeologist offered, stepping up next to them. "It was discovered in Giza in 1928, but we only opened it five years ago."

Dean didn't bother to hide his frown. _Why tell us this?_

The Colonel came forward then, aggravated resignation in brown eyes. One shoulder shrugged. "You'll have to sign a nondisclosure statement before you leave, regardless."

_That's what you think._ No friggin' way. But these uniforms didn't need to find that out yet.

"How did you find out about skinwalkers, anyway?" the archaeologist probed. He had hands deep in his pockets, and seemed relaxed despite the way the rest of the people in the room were convinced that acting like they were crazy would solve the problem for a little longer. "I mean, I'm familiar with the legends of doppelgängers from Germanic folklore, but most of those legends just recount the mischief-making tendencies of look-alikes."

Sam started pulling out information he'd hit Dean with earlier, when they were stuck in that bizarrely space-themed motel. Or maybe not so bizarre, now that they knew what was really going on in this city. "Dopplegangers are most prevalent in German legends, true, but they're found in all mythologies to one degree or another. Most of the rumors about them are crap – skinwalkers are solid creatures, so they have shadows and reflections in water and mirrors." Losing interest in the ring, his brother leant one shoulder against the glass.

_And lore will say that when you see your own doppelgänger, you'll be haunted by their image. _Mostly because they would shadow you until they managed to kill you, and take your place.

"Actually, in September 2006 an article was published in the journal _Science_ where electrical stimulus applied to the brain induced the sensation of a doppelgänger in the test subject," the Major offered from her seat at the table.

A snort escaped him. "One test subject, lady. With epilepsy. That's not science, that's Ripley's Believe It Or Not."

Sam gave him a weird look, but Dean ignored it. Yeah, he'd read the article. _There might have been info on skinwalkers, dude. _So what? "Thing is," Dean continued, one eye on his still-tense little brother, other on the ring, "they can't stay in one skin for too long. Their bodies produce it, but if it gets damaged, they can't heal it. And from what we can tell, the things tend to just wear out with use anyway; expiration date seems to be about a week from whenever they get a new skin. So they're constantly looking to find another one."

"Well, then, why don't they just borrow someone's face and be done with it?" O'Neill, his name was – written in the namepatch on the green jacket. "Why bother killing people?"

"Right, because it's so easy in a day and age where people want names and ID to go with the faces every time you turn around to pretend to be someone's unrelated twin." Dean knew what _that_ was like; it was damn hard to always be coming up with fake names and IDs. _Especially now that your face is in the Fed's system . . ._

"They seem to want to live normally," Sam pushed away from thick glass, ambling back toward the table. "The one in St. Louis wanted to be able to have a life, even if it was psychotic. This one seems to be taking over peoples' lives for a specific purpose, though. Always people who work in the Mountain, though if you haven't heard of it, they're probably NORAD employees."

"'Specific purpose'? What purpose?" Positioned at the head of the table, the General regarded them with a serious blue gaze.

Dean shrugged, comfortable leaning against the large glass pane. "We don't know."

* * *

Seated once more, Sam raised a brow as the group finished hammering out a plan to catch the skinwalker. _At least it sounds like it'll work._ There wasn't time for anything fancy; the thing knew something was going on at the very least, and it had been searching with a purpose. So far, it hadn't found whatever it was looking for, but that wouldn't last.

"Good," the Colonel sighed.

The Major was speaking with Dr. Jackson on the other side of the table. "- analysis. Have you had any luck?"

"Yes," the archaeologist's smile was brief but genuine. "Liz found the artifacts in Storage on 26. Seemed like they'd been switched with some files that ended up in Dr. Rothman's office, instead."

_Right,_ Sam turned away as the Major began again to say something about metal, and crystalline structure, and gamma shielding.

"But it would be a lot easier if our security cameras were online," Colonel O'Neill leveled at stare at Dean that reminded Sam an awful lot of Dad. _Must be some military thing._

"Yeah, whatever." The look on Dean's face said, _Deal._

An older man, thin and balding over a series of deep wrinkles, pushed through paneled doors. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but -" On seeing them, his jaw snapped shut.

"General Carter," Hammond nodded in greeting.

_Another General. Just how many of them do they have hiding down here anyway?_ But there was something in the way Hammond was treating the man that made the younger Winchester stare. _Not . . . careful. Not quite. So what does he know that we don't?_

His brother's shoulders stiffened, green narrowed on the newest arrival as the man moved to a corner with the General, speaking too quietly to be overheard.

Sam leant close, whispering. "What is it?"

"Something's not right," Dean said lowly.

The muscles in his forehead bunched. "What do you mean?"

But his brother wasn't paying attention; had locked gazes with General Carter and pressed both palms against the table. Sam recognized the move. Dean was only just keeping himself from pushing out of his chair.

The word fell, anvil-heavy, from his brother's lips, ringing over the muted noises of conversation taking place across the table. _"Christo."_

And in General Carter's face, dark eyes flashed white.

_

* * *

_

Crash!

Leather and wood hit were so much splintered rubble after the force that had thrown the chairs against unyielding cement. Pressed back-to-back and well clear of walls and Briefing Room table, the Winchesters moved with deadly speed. From beneath concealing layers, two handguns whipped free, barrels pointed straight at her father.

_What the –_

"Selmac?" Confusion rippled over craggy features; Dad put one hand to the back of his neck. "I – I can't hear -"

Two voices rang out, every syllable matching. _"Regna terrae, cantate Deo -" _

_Latin?_

Starkly pale as he hadn't been a moment before, Jacob's hand braced against solid oak as her father swayed on his feet.

"Dad?" Sam stepped forward; froze when the taller of the two brought his gun to bear on her.

"Stay away from him," the younger Winchester warned darkly, breaking the flow of ancient words only long enough to force the English out.

Sam glared with enough force to melt trinium. "He's my father!"

"He's _possessed!_" The older Winchester snarled, diving right back into the rhythmic chant. _"- soliter domino." _

Knees hit thin carpet, a cry bursting from her father's lips. "Ahhhh!"

_They're hurting him! Dad!_

Dark, strong fingers wrapped around her elbow and dragged her back. Sam yanked, but Teal'c wasn't letting go. The younger Winchester glared at her, but never paused his recitation.

"We know!" Jack roared. "It's okay!"

" _Qui vehitor celus, celus antiquos -" _

"Put the guns down," the General thundered. "_Now!_"

Daniel lifted his voice over the Latin. "If you get rid of it, he'll die!"

They didn't even pause. _"E enter edet vocem suum -"_

_No - Dad -!_

"Stop," croaked a thin voice, half-under the massive Briefing Room table. "_Please_."

_

* * *

_

There.

Humming, low and content, from behind the sturdy desk.

It slipped into the room, not bothering to conceal itself.

The woman looked up; a smile replaced the sudden start of fear. "Oh! Major Wexler. Did you want to speak with me, sir?"

"Where is it?" it asked without preamble. She knew. She had to – the _scent_ was thick around her.

Polite confusion. Another human mask. "I'm sorry?"

Rage struck out, slamming her to the book-strewn floor.

"You have it," it snarled, not bothering to hide blackish drips of blood as the splitting lip peeled further, skin flapping grotesquely.

Brown eyes under red hair went wide; a choked noise slithered from her throat.

"I know you do. I can smell it on you, Lizzie. _Where is it?_"

"I – I don't know what you're talking about – Major -"

"Don't recognize me, Lizzie?" it grinned, licking over teeth that were beginning to crack and splinter. The mask was soon falling apart. It would find the prize, and then find a new one.

The human stared, something it recognized as horror overtaking her body in shivering convulsions.

It shoved the mask's face closer, relishing how shocked eyes latched onto the signs of deterioration. "_Where is the amulet?"_


	7. Chapter 7

"What the hell was that?!" O'Neill was raging, and neither of the two young Tau'ri even blinked.

Teal'c raised a brow.

"An exorcism," Daniel Jackson interrupted, stepping between the Colonel and the brothers.

Jacob Carter was reclining palely in one of the chairs, Major Carter at his side with soft, soothing words.

"An exorcism." Disbelief faded through the anger, but not for long. "What, they teach you that at MIT?" he snapped in the direction of the older brother.

"No." Standing straight and armed, the young Tau'ri's anger was almost palpable. Sam Winchester shot his brother a puzzled glance.

"Regardless of where it was learned, the ritual seemed most effective," Teal'c observed. One hand rested against his stomach. His own symbiote had quieted now, but the _prim'ta_ had been writhing in its pouch during the chant. The sensation had been . . . disturbing.

"I'll say," Jacob Carter rasped.

"He's possessed." The older brother's weapon was pointed at thin carpeting, now, with the younger following his lead, but they had moved with practiced swiftness. From their position, no one in the room would be able to reach them without the Winchesters seeing, and reacting first.

"In a manner of speaking," Daniel Jackson admitted. "But -"

General Hammond interrupted. "That's not in your need-to-know."

"Oh, I think it is," and Teal'c recognized the battlefield voice of one who would not give in, not even facing death. "See, you can tell us exactly what the hell is going on around here, or we can pick up where we left off."

"You'll kill him if you do," Major Carter objected, body completely blocking her father from sight. At her sides, clenched fists waited.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time," the older Winchester snarled back.

Into the shocked silence, Daniel Jackson found words. "It's not like that."

"Then why don't you tell us what it is like?" Sam Winchester's voice was quiet. Implacable.

General Hammond's lips were tight. As commander of the SGC, it was his sworn duty to protect the facility from exposure. But the Tau'ri did not even know of this threat to their world. _A high cost for the protection of such innocence._ "Very well," the General sighed.

"Allow me," Teal'c stood, stepping forward until the gun raised again; too far to make any move closer, no matter how sudden, without being shot. Remaining still, he carefully lifted the hem of his black t-shirt, revealing the X-shaped scar spanning his abdomen.

"What _is_ that?"

"Oh, _gross._"

"That," Teal'c answered the younger Winchester, "is the pouch in which a larval Goa'uld resides until it matures. The Goa'uld are a parasitic race that have, in the past, enslaved both your people and mine."

Green eyes lifted to meet Teal'c's steady gaze, bewildered. "Come again?"

"When we opened the Stargate five years ago, we discovered the Goa'uld," Daniel Jackson's voice took on the cadence of one telling a story. The archaeologist stepped forward slowly, and Teal'c took it as a sign of progress that the weapons did not track his progress.

_At least they are willing to listen._ They had encountered many over the years who would not. Teal'c retreated slowly, shirt once again covering the _prim'ta_'s pouch.

"They are symbiotes – they look a lot like snakes, actually – that take humans as hosts. They enter through the mouth or the back of the neck and -"

"Cozy up to your brainstem," O'Neill stuck in, with devilish joy at the revulsion on the faces of the brothers. "Take control, pretty much, and keep you trapped inside your own brain."

"God," Sam Winchester appeared ill, swallowing hard. But his grip on the gun never wavered. "That's why it worked. It's corporeal, but it's still a possessing entity."

"Gotta love the loopholes," his brother retorted. "So if you only opened this thing five years ago, where are these snakes getting their hosts? People like him?" Momentarily, the gun's barrel aimed on Teal'c, seated once more.

"Ah, no," Daniel Jackson slid slightly to the side, positioning himself between the older Winchester and Teal'c. "To make a long story short, over five thousand years ago a Goa'uld calling himself Ra ruled Earth, and many of the different peoples of Earth were brought through the Stargate to other planets. They were made slaves to the dozens of Goa'uld who gathered technology and styled themselves as gods. They call themselves the System Lords."

"Arrogant, much?"

"Oh, definitely," the archaeologist answered the younger brother with an easy smile. Teal'c could feel the tension in the room dissipate, though both civilian Tau'ri remained watchful. _A credit to their Training Master._ "But the people rebelled against Ra, and he was forced to take his Jaffa and flee through the Stargate, which was covered and buried."

Spiky hair jerked toward General Carter. "So why's exorcising him a bad thing, again?"

"Because I am not a System Lord," came the reverberating, symbiotic voice. General Carter's body, controlled by the Goa'uld within, rose carefully and stepped to Major Carter's side.

And as easily as Daniel Jackson had brought peace to the room, Selmac destroyed it. _Mai'tac._

"I am Tok'ra. My name is Selmac," he continued.

The Winchesters remained silent, weapons up.

"I am of the same species as the System Lords, but of a people who oppose their ways of subjugating Tau'ri – humans," Selmac explained. "We of the Tok'ra share with our hosts."

"Share what?" Sam Winchester did not lower his weapon to ask the question. Teal'c approved.

"Our senses in our own bodies are meager," Selmac shrugged his host's shoulders. "In exchange for sight, hearing, mobility, our hosts are granted health and long life. Jacob Carter wishes you to know that he is a host of his own volition. He was dying of cancer before he joined the ranks of Tok'ra."

"Deals with demons. Always sounds like a friggin' recruitment pamphlet," Dean Winchester muttered, under his breath. "What, so half of the snakes got religion?"

A sound from Daniel Jackson that might have been a muffled snigger. O'Neill's annoyance now stemmed from his efforts to fight a smile. Teal'c felt his own amusement return full-force, though he would not allow it to show.

"What you're saying," blue-green eyes shifted to each person around the room. "Is that you found this Stargate gathering dust somewhere, decided to see what it could do, and walked all of Earth into a five-millennia-old war?"

"Not exactly," O'Neill hedged. "They threw the first punch, so to speak. Y'know, what with the kidnapping, enslavement . . ."

Teal'c folded his hands on cool, shining wood. These two Tau'ri were young, not foolish.

A pause; the brothers exchanged incredulous glances.

Then, Dean Winchester loosed a string of curses that blistered the air.

* * *

"Give it to me!"

_Not the Major, not the Major._ Easier to believe, now that – Liz gulped – his face was . . . _flaking_ off. Not in small, thin scales of dead skin; flesh was sloughing off in massive, oozing chunks. What was underneath was gray, leathery, and in no way human.

_Amulet? What does it want the amulet for?_

Well, if that was what it wanted, it was her job to make sure that thing _didn't_ get it. _A foothold situation – sound the alarm -_ "I – I don't -"

Rancid breath, like blood and decaying meat and fear-sweat, blew into her face. Its lips – or what was left of them – pulled apart. _It's smiling._

_Oh, God, help –_

_Calm,_ the military-trained part of her mind ordered. _It wants you to be afraid. It likes your fear. That's your tool to use._

Okay. She could do that.

Rotting fingers dragged her upright, the grip on her arms bruising. "No time for games, Lizzie. I can smell it on you. Where is it!"

"Here," she choked on the stench of it, grabbing for a box of – something. The shelves in the storage room were close and cluttered, which was probably why it hadn't found the amulet yet, if it really could smell the piece of jewelry the way it claimed.

As soon as the grasp on her biceps loosened, Liz twisted away, striking out with the box to hit –

Empty air.

_It's fast – _

Metal struts slammed her lungs closed as the thing caught hold of her green BDU jacket and yanked. _Can't . . . breathe . . . _

"Not a nice girl, Lizzie," the words crawled over her ears, through the haze of having the wind knocked out of her. "Don't play well with others. I'll just find it myself, then."

Steps, going away as she gasped relentlessly for air.

_Got to warn - _

It wasn't looking, diving deeper into the dark storage room. Flipping onto her stomach, knees and elbows pulled Liz along concrete. A sliver of light guided her. _Left the door ajar –_

She didn't hear the thing move.

Weight all over her body, pressing her relentlessly to the floor with no leverage to push it off and away. And digging into her back, twists of wire and the knobs of green gems that she knew made up the amulet from P5M-K58. _No!_

"Now, now. Leaving the party so soon?"

* * *

The bulletproof vest settled heavily against her ribs with every breath. Sam shrugged BDU-covered shoulders, resettling the weight a little as she adjusted her grip on the P90. Ahead, the Colonel was stalking down the corridor, taking point; she had their six, and the civilian was between them, slinking next to curved walls with catlike quiet.

She directed her glare to the back of his spiky-haired head.

_He was just doing what he thought was right,_ a little voice in the back of her mind told her.

_Doesn't matter._ He'd _hurt_ her father; she hadn't seen Jacob look that ill since he'd told her he was –

_Philosophical differences or not, the Tok'ra are Goa'uld._ And the only way to save the host was to get rid of the parasite. _Sometimes not even then. _Sam looked back again, covering their rear as she moved sideways down the corridor, wall at her spine.

Jack stopped at the corner ahead, gray-washed head turning to check on them.

How had that 'exorcism' even worked, anyway? _It was just words!_

She could see Daniel in her mind's eye, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his hands gesticulated, mouth running a mile a minute with an explanation that more often than not ended up making perfect sense. But the archaeologist was with Teal'c and the younger Winchester.

Which meant she got stuck with the obnoxious one.

"Clear," came the quiet whisper from ahead.

Boots as quiet as she could make them, Sam inched forward.

"So where are we going again?"

_Deep breaths._

Green eyes were grinning at her in the otherwise-blank face; this kid knew she didn't like him. _He's goading me._ "Level 26," she kept her temper in check. "The 'Gateroom and Control room, as well as the Briefing Room and senior staff quarters on the bottom two levels, always have security guards patrolling the halls. The next level up is the first one where the security cameras are really needed."

The edge in her voice only had him flashing white teeth her way. "Ooops."

_Yeah, right._

Echoing her thoughts, the Colonel snorted.

The noise of a slamming door echoed through the hall.

Instantly alert, Winchester pressed against the wall; the Colonel was crouched to peer around the corner. His fist raised, then slammed forward. _Move!_

* * *

"I didn't recognize the Latin incantation you were using."

Sam glanced over, but Dr. Jackson's expression was purely curious as they crept down the corridor. _Exorcism. Right. _"It's, ah, a thirteenth century adaptation of a rite of exorcism which goes back over a thousand years before that. Pretty obscure, unless you're in the business."

"The demon-hunting business?" A frown compressed the archaeologists' lips. Sam couldn't help but notice how at-ease the scholar was, despite the bullet-proof vest and assault rifle. _Not that that's going to do any good, unless they've loaded it with silver rounds._

Nah, he didn't think so.

"Yeah." His own bulletproof vest was a little tight, but Dean had refused to let him hunt without it. And had scowled when Sam had shoved another one into his arms for his big brother to wear.

Just in front of him, the huge man – _Jaffa_ – was scouting the hallway.

"Anything, Teal'c?" Dr. Jackson called.

"I see nothing," was the cool response.

Sam scrambled closer as they turned down another hallway. Tried a handle on one of the rooms they passed. "These doors always locked?"

"We've gone back into lockdown," Dr. Jackson explained. "Now that we know who the doppelgänger is impersonating, the Control Room contacted every office and told the respondee to barricade themselves in."

"Well, that should work," Sam flexed the muscles in his hand around the grip of his gun. "Unless it's already decided to ditch its skin for a new one."

Abrupt silence; both turned to look at him.

"How long would that take?" Dr. Jackson's voice was tight.

"Too long, I hope." Sam was mentally turning the pages of his father's journal, recalling what they'd discovered in St. Louis and Milwaukee. "If it's as driven to find whatever it's searching for as we think it is -"

And then he remembered splitting up in city streets, of being apart for less than half an hour and that being time enough for the skinwalker to not only take his brother down, but to impersonate him well enough to give Sam a moment's pause. _It's had Major Wexler's face since it got here, and until it caught us, at the very least._ Which gave it about an hour to have slipped into someone else's skin, from the time it had left the Briefing Room until now. "Dammit."

It all depended on how quietly the second, internal lockdown of the base had gone.

Sam blinked at the suddenly anxious glances his quiet outburst had drawn.

"Is it -" the Jaffa began.

_Crackle_, from behind him. Sam turned at the voice from the walkie-talkie, alternating his attention between both ends of the hallway as he listened. _"Daniel, come in."_

That was O'Neill. At least Dean hadn't killed him yet; the two grated on each others' last nerve after only five minutes in the same room.

Carefully adjusting his grip on the P90, the scholar thumbed the walkie-talkie on. "We're at 26H, clear so far."

_"Storage B isn't locked down,"_ O'Neill replied, voice low through the radio-waves.

The Jaffa nodded; they were moving faster now, jogging through the corridors and only slowing for the corners.

Through the walkie-talkie came the grumbling roar of shots fired, followed by a yell that sounded female.

O'Neill's voice exploded through the mess of noise and static. _"Got it! Headed your way!"_

Rubber pounded concrete as Sam ran, only able to follow the other two as Dr. Jackson sprinted in front of him. Dean's trio was driving it; now, it was their job to cut the skinwalker off, corral it in.

_We've got to trap it. _

* * *

How _dare_ they?!

Pressed at its side, the pack of meat and bones and blood in the shape of female _reeked_ with fear.

"Now, now, Lizzie, don't be scared. It's just me. Tony."

At its whisper, she trembled. "You're not the Major."

"Oh, but I _am,_" it grinned back. It could feel the weight on its chest, feel the way the amulet wrapped its deteriorating skin in a protective embrace. The mask wasn't healing, but it wasn't getting any worse. "For now, at least."

It would be easy enough to find a _permanent_ mask on the outside.

_Elevators._

That was the way out.

The skin had ripped off its hands first – too many wrinkles and moving parts, too many demands on the weakening fibers of flesh. The fingers that gripped the back of her neck, digging clawlike nails into delicate, _real_ skin, were black-leather gnarled. It hissed through cracked teeth. Shoved her out of the storage room first.

No one was there.

"Move," it grunted, paying no attention to the hands it had bound tightly behind her back with a convenient electrical cord. The gun was awkward in its other hand, but not so much that it wouldn't be able to pull the trigger and send her brain splattering across gray concrete.

They rounded an empty corner.

It frowned.

_Should be more here._ Level 26 saw use as senior quarters. There should be more humans guarding. "What's going on?" It shook the woman by her neck, feeling the rage spurt up again.

"I don't -"

_BLAM! BLAM!_

The first two shots hit it in the back, and were about as damaging as dandelion fluff. Its fingers tightened around the woman's neck, determined to force a cry from her.

The vicious squeeze was quickly rewarded – and the bullets stopped.

The laugh was practiced and smooth, now, as it turned. Kept its prisoner in front. Ohhh, its mask knew that face! "Colonel O'Neill," it smiled. "So nice of you to join us!"

"Let her go!"

"Right. And give up my hostage? I don't think so." Foolish of them, really. It would never get out of here without one – there were just too many of them. The humans would need a living, breathing incentive to open their doors and allow it to stroll free.

_BLAM!_

And the next bullet fired grazed its arm, with a searing stinging that -

_They have silver bullets! _

_How_ was that possible! These humans had no idea –

Another shot, and this time it flinched. No way to know which was silver, and which wasn't. _Run!_

It caught the lagging human up, dragging it along. _Elevators, must get to the –_

_BLAM!_

Another shot, from the front, carefully missing both it and its prisoner, but the message was clear enough to pull a rabid snarl from its lips.

It was cornered.

* * *

"Go!"

_Don't need to tell me twice._ Dean slammed after the Colonel, hurtling around a corner and trying to get a better bead on the 'shifter. _Friggin' thing has a hostage. That's just great. _"I thought you had everyone in here locked down!" he yelled at the grey-haired man.

Dean couldn't make out actual words from the sudden gunfire, but he got the gist of the Colonel's shouting.

"Yeah, right back atcha," he snarled, slamming to a stop.

The bulk just in front of him was tense and furious; Colonel O'Neill aimed his P90 with deadly accuracy, clipping the skinwalker's arm. "I thought I told you not to shoot!"

_That'll work real well. _"Seein' as how my brother and I got the only weapons that can kill this thing, that's not the greatest plan!"

The skinwalker was mid-shed, blackened skin peeking out from underneath loose, oozing flaps of fake-flesh. Cornered by the elevators, it

From the other side of the hallway, Dr. Jackson's voice rang out. "Let her go!"

The gurgling chuckle was thick; Dean winced at the wet sound.

"And lose my get-out-of-jail-free card?"

_No time for this._ "Sam! Take McQueen!"

* * *

As it swung from the skinwalker's neck, the emeralds in the amulet were _glowing._ It was backlighting Liz's calm face, the green glow turning the red streaks running down her neck black.

_What is it doing?_

But for all his practice, it was always harder to think through the aural haze of bullets chipping into concrete.

"Let her go!"

Another voice shouted – he couldn't –

But apparently the young man next to him could; the handgun went off. "Silver, you son of a bitch!" yelled Sam Winchester, pressed slightly higher against concrete at his side.

Daniel saw the moment the thing turned, putting Liz between itself and the younger Winchester.

Just in time to catch a bullet in the back from the older.

_

* * *

_

Cunningham and Wexler are fine.

After the most thorough physicals of their lives, Dr. Warner had pronounced them unharmed, relatively; Cunningham was sedated right now and being treated in case of infection from the skinwalker's nails. As for Dr. Frasier -

Latex stripped from her hands landed in the clear bin marked with Biohazard skull and bones. "From what I can tell on just an autopsy, it's human." The Doc frowned. "I just have to analyze the blood and tissue samples, but it has all the requisite organs in all the right places."

Jack slouched further down into the hard Infirmary chair. Arrayed at his sides were the rest of SG-1; across from them the Winchesters had yet to let their guards down. In the Infirmary entrance, General Hammond's arms were folded over his crisp shirt as he regarded the base's CMO.

For her part, the Doc's gaze went from the curtain concealing Private Cunningham to their . . . 'guests'. "Should I leave the silver bullets in it?" The direct question was aimed at the Winchesters, who were showing the first signs of relaxation despite their wariness. _Probably because they're still armed._

That one fact meant all of Jack's senses were buzzing on high alert.

The two shared a speaking glance. "Shouldn't matter," was what the elder finally responded. "Dead is dead. Usually. But you might want to salt and burn the corpse when you're through."

_'Usually'?_ Jack shifted against hard plastic, restless and trying not to show it. _I don't like the sound of that._ On the other side of Teal'c, Carter's jaw was tight. _She's not getting over the attempted-exorcism any time soon,_ Jack decided. Daniel was taking everything in, hands deep in green BDU pockets.

"Just in case," the younger added, redirecting his attention.

It was a little freaky, really. Aside from the height, this kid reminded him of Daniel, back when the SGC had only just found their feet. _Floppy hair, idealist eyes, earnest attitude._

Then Jack mentally rewound. _What?_

"Salt and burn?" Daniel asked, every word careful. The archaeologist was leaning against the pile of Kevlar vests, keeping the stack from sliding off the chair and onto the Infirmary floor.

"Yeah. It's pretty standard, actually," Sam Winchester explained, guileless. Shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother, the kid loomed about three inches taller. _Jeez. Sasquatch. _"Mostly it's the technique used to banish a vengeful spirit, but it's a good rule of thumb to, ah, dispose of most things you've got a problem with."

"After you've wasted 'em," the older put in, almost as an afterthought.

The Colonel blinked; he was still stuck on – "'Vengeful spirit'?" Jack let the air quotes hang.

_Rrrring._

Janet slipped aside to answer as Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on," he griped.

Jack's hand twitched. No. Bad reflexes. No killing the annoying civilians.

Sam didn't bother to hide his disbelief either. "You play around with aliens and the idea of a ghost throws you for a loop?"

"Aliens," the older brother snorted. Spiky hair shook slowly back and forth. "That gets funnier every time I hear it."

_Speaking of which._ Jack opened his mouth, probably to say something to the General regarding nondisclosure statements, signatures, and _now_, but was pre-empted by the Doc.

"Excuse me, sir," Janet held out the phone. "The Control Room."

Hammond straightened. "No one goes anywhere." His pointed expression was directed solely at the Winchesters. Four steps had the General disappearing inside Janet's office.

Jack smirked. _Time for some answers._ "So. The family business. Your dad get you started in that?"

He wasn't imagining it; two faces went simultaneously blank and the eyes Dean turned on him were cold. _Something there._

Unexpectedly, Teal'c stepped into the conversation, though he didn't shift from his guarding stance near the Infirmary entrance. "Your Training Master has done well. Tal mak'tiak mal we'ia to fight beside you."

_Huh._ Quite a compliment, from the big guy.

"What?"

"It's a compliment," the linguist was quick to step in. "Teal'c was just saying that he was honored to fight with you. It's a – a sign of respect to whoever trained you."

"Our dad's dead," was the response, from the younger brother. Silence, solemn and cold, filled the space between them. The older kept his eyes firmly on the tips of black boots.

_Hell. _From the frozen expressions on their faces, it was also recent. _Way to go, O'Neill, throwing it in the kid's face._ Something about the brittleness marking the older brother's features set him off-balance, out of the headspace of a moment ago where Dean Winchester was just an incredibly annoying pain in the ass.

Which was when Hammond stepped out of the Doc's office with irritation clipping his words. "It seems Major Davis has arrived, and is on his way to the Infirmary."

_Great. Major 'Disaster' Davis to the rescue. _But the man had proven trustworthy; if anyone could get the bigwigs to pay attention, Davis would give it his best shot. "Explaining this to the Pentagon is going to be fun."

"To the _Pentagon_?" the younger Winchester sputtered.

"Yes."

Jack turned at the new voice.

"Major Davis," Hammond nodded. The Major came to swift attention, saluting.

"General Hammond. Colonel O'Neill." Then blue eyes blinked in the solemn, on-duty face that was all they usually saw from him, shifting over Hammond's shoulder as the older Winchester pushed off the wall. Jack stared as Davis' hand came up, extending toward the younger man. "Hey, Dean."

"Paul." The elder Winchester shook Davis' hand firmly. "How you been?"

_No way._ Jack shoved to his own feet, striding closer. _At least his brother looks just as confused. _He stared between the two for a minute, groping for words. "_This_ is your contact?"

"Yeah, well, what can I say," Dean shrugged, smirk back in place.

"Dean helped me out two years ago," Davis smoothed one hand down his navy uniform jacket, speaking up. "There was a poltergeist haunting my house. I almost died."

_Poltergeist? For crying out loud!_ "That's a movie," was all he could come up with. The blank expression Davis gave him was par for the course; behind them, Sam Winchester made a choking sound.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin' yourself that," Dean muttered. Green eyes hit the Major again. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you. Everything's been quiet at home?"

"Unless you count Abby crying," Davis' face broke into a smile. "She doesn't really want a baby brother or sister, but we're getting her used to the idea."

Jack's head spun. _Davis has a wife? A daughter?_

"Well." Daniel stepped forward, voice low as he watched Davis's exchange with the older Winchester. Jack scraped his jaw off the floor when Davis literally pulled out his wallet to show a picture to Dean. A tiny grin was evident in the archaeologist's voice. "Maybe this won't be as hard as you thought."


	8. Chapter 8

Coffee. Sweet nectar of the gods.

"- which, I think, is why the skinwalker wanted it."

Daniel pushed open the door into Sam's lab, where the first thing he saw was twisted silver wire and dark emeralds, a little worse for the wear for surviving bullets blasting around it. "Hmm?"

Blonde hair tilted up from where the astrophysicist was intent on the amulet, a pair of pliers in one hand and assorted meters, notes, and tools laid out along her worktable. "Hey, Daniel. Come check this out!"

Jack was shaking his head in fond amusement, and Daniel skirted the edge of the table to get a closer look at the artifact.

A graph had squiggled its way across Sam's computer screen, in thin lines of green and red, as she waved a blinking meter near the amulet. _Gamma shielding,_ Daniel could read as he tilted his head to one side. Then blinked at where the axis was placed.

Over his shoulder, Jack was peering toward the screen with a frown. "How, exactly, does this drop into the _negative_?"

"It has to do with the physical properties of the metal," Sam had lifted the amulet in careful fingers, lights from the many glowing machines bouncing off faceted green. "It's definitely an alloy, a mix of trinium, titanium, and another element I haven't been able to identify completely yet. But the point is that it manages to almost completely trap gamma rays through a combination of absorption and refraction."

Jack scratched through graying strands, leaning up against heavy shelving supporting complex computer hardware. "And the skinwalker wanted it why, again?"

_Gamma rays. Carcinogenic, produced not just by the sun but also coming from outer space. Skinwalker wanted it for its shielding properties –_

"It shields against gamma rays, prevents them from being absorbed," Sam continued. She set the amulet down gently, metal scraping against metal. "Gamma rays are by their intrinsic nature the highest level of electromagnetic radiation known; direct exposure can seriously damage exposed biological cells."

"Damage how? What, like bad sunburn?" Jack had reached out now to play with a meter; the identical glares Sam and Daniel shot him had him snatching his hand back, raising an open palm defensively.

"More like severe thermal burn injuries," the astrophysicist inserted, sliding a picture across the smooth metal work surface for the Colonel to catch. Daniel glanced over the green BDU-covered shoulder and winced at the marred flesh displayed in full color and shivering detail. _Yuk._

Jack flinched; the picture shot back across the table to Sam. "Yuk."

"I was talking to Janet," she continued. Daniel edged closer to the amulet, curious fingers seeking the interlocking sweeps of metal. "Gamma rays can break apart DNA easily. Exposure to a high dose can create mutations in DNA that lead to hereditary disease. Generally, though, the victim suffers from leukemia, lung, liver, or skeletal cancer."

_Gods._

"Chernobyl," the archaeologist muttered. Found blue eyes locked on him in interest, waiting to see where he would go with the thread of idea. "There's a famous film about the spill cleanup, I'm sure you've seen it. The picture is grainy, black and white, and distorted from massive amounts of radiation – and at the end, a caption rises that tells the viewer that everyone they saw on screen, and those they didn't, were dead within the year."

"Radiation," Jack muttered. The Colonel shifted one more time on his feet. "But that's on a massive scale; we're talking meltdown of a nuclear power plant, for cryin' out loud. There's nothing like that here."

_This deep in the Mountain?_ Daniel chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. _No way._

Blonde hair nodded. "Exactly. Most types of lesser radiation, like UV which causes sunburn – can be healed or repaired by the body. Gamma radiation is an exception to the normal rule. DNA-repairing mechanisms have been shown to repair DNA damaged by high doses of gamma rays; but on a chronic, low level, those same mechanisms are not as effective, for some reason."

_Low level, chronic exposure. Cell damage. _And the image of normal skin, slip-sliding off the form underneath. Daniel's breath caught; Sam's eyes locked with his and he knew then what she was driving at. "Gamma radiation was what made the skinwalker's skin deteriorate," he started.

"And it wanted the amulet so that it could stay in one skin for an extended period of time," she finished.

"Forever," Daniel corrected softly.

"Huh." Jack looked back and forth between them, hands folding.

"It's in line with what Sam and Dean told us about the shapeshifters," Daniel mused. One long finger tapped at the metal worktable, producing a hollow noise. "Can't keep a skin too long, though that varies shifter to shifter. Avoids the sun."

"Primary source of gamma rays in our solar system," Sam agreed.

Jack grimaced. Darkly.

_Here we go again._ Dollars to donuts, it had something to do with the brothers resting under guard in a VIP room on Level 15. "Jack? Something wrong?"

Tiny lines around his eyes proclaimed Jack's answering smile to be forced. "Nah. Just remembered – I gotta pick up something from my office for Hammond."

* * *

Jack took a deep breath, savoring the taste of recycled air in both nostrils – and then gave up and inhaled through his mouth as he moved into his own oft-deserted office. _Ugh. _

A cough sputtered behind him as the archaeologist followed. "Gods, what _is_ that?"

"I don't know," he grumped. "It only started an hour ago, or so, but it's been getting worse."

"It smells like something died in here," Daniel offered frankly. The linguist's nose was buried in his cup of coffee in a futile attempt at self-preservation. It wouldn't work. Jack knew. He'd tried.

Circling the desk, Jack didn't bother to sit. He just needed to find the damn forms and make sure he got them on Hammond's desk for Davis, soon as. _And get out of here sooner. _"I've looked. There's nothing."

_Okay, not on the desk. Drawers. _A glance up caught the tiny face Daniel was making into his mug. "Ah, come on. It's not that bad."

"No," the archaeologist said mournfully. "It's worse."

Rifling through stacks of paper that he was going to get around to sorting – eventually – Jack couldn't hold in a growl. _I left them right here. Where –_

Familiar forms slid into sight, with ink scrawling names at the bottom. "Okay, let's go."

Danny needed no second bidding; he was out the door before Jack could emerge from behind his battered, scarred desk.

Okay, maybe it _was_ that bad. All large facilities had a rodent problem, and the SGC was no exception, but he'd _checked._ No little furry bodies, anywhere.

The archaeologist was waiting a good six feet away from his door, on the opposite side of the hall. Jack hiked a brow, and got an arch look in return. _Yeah, okay._ He couldn't blame him; hardened Black Ops Colonel or not, the pungent stink still set his stomach to rolling.

"Maybe you should ask Siler to check it out," Daniel volunteered, falling into step with him as he sauntered down the corridor.

Jack shrugged, surging forward as the elevators stopped on their level. Three Airmen got out, the last polite enough to hold the door for a senior officer. Jack darted in, and then slumped comfortably against cool metal panels. Daniel entered at a trot, hitting the button as he went.

"What's that?" Short, chestnut hair inclined toward the papers in his hand.

Jack yielded them, knowing the persistence of the archaeologist. _Force majeure, indeed._ "Nondisclosure contracts that the Winchesters signed."

A pause as the sound of rustling paper filled the elevator car.

"Are you sure about that, Jack?"

He didn't bother opening eyes he had closed to enjoy the ride. "Yeah. Why?"

"Because this one is signed by someone named Ted Nugent."

_What?!_ Jack jerked upright, grabbing for the papers Daniel was already holding out to him. Peered at the scrawl on the first page. And the second. And the seventh, and tenth. "I'm going to kill him."

The elevator _ding_ed, and he stormed from the car, archaeologist in his wake.

Suspicion filtered through his brain; Jack snagged the second form and saw now that the script, while familiar, didn't spell out the signature he'd so carefully watched the younger Winchester write out. _James Hetfield._ The lead guitarist and vocalist for Metallica. "No. I'm going to kill them both."

Daniel snickered.

Jack sent all personnel scattering out of his way as he barreled down the corridor.

Outside the General's office, he caught sight of Siler waiting, toolbox clutched in fierce, white-knuckled anger. "Sir," the man growled. Shoved a piece of paper at him.

Jack blinked his way out of his own irritation, fingers going to the yellow, lined sheet the engineer was pressing on him. Looked down to the neat, quick hand.

_**Just four hours this time.**_

Daniel tugged the piece of paper from his grasp. "Four hours? This time? What -"

"The security cameras went down again, sir," Siler nodded to the note. "It was a bit of a mess, but -"

Jack pulled his glare from the note at the pause. "But what?"

The coveralled Sergeant grimaced. "It took about four hours, right enough."

It was a good thing the SGC gave its personnel a good benefits package, with all the enamel Jack was wearing off his teeth in the past two days. Unclenching his jaw, he nodded to the engineer. "I'll let General Hammond know."

With a bare nod, Siler was down the hall and gone.

Leaving Daniel watching him stew in his own juices with an expression of mild interest, calmly sipping his mug of coffee. "I'm sure it's just a joke, Jack," he tried, being reasonable.

Jack wasn't in the mood for reason. "I'm not laughing," was his terse response.

Neither was the General.

Five minutes later, Jack stood in front of the commander of the SGC's desk, holding out the note and the forms, trying to find a good explanation and coming up blank.

He was going to throttle them both. Slowly.

Daniel was propped in the doorjamb, unabashedly listening in.

"Apparently," the older man snapped, "our guests have decided they've had enough of our hospitality."

_Ah, crap._ Jack stared. _Please don't let that mean what I think it means._

"They're not in their room," Hammond confirmed. Faded red browns drew down, annoyance lending an angry flush to stern, round features.

"I'm sorry," Daniel pushed his glasses up, curiosity on his face. "But how do you know? According to Siler, the security cameras were down." A golden-brown brow arched, but Jack had known the archaeologist long enough to see the carefully-hidden humor lingering in his voice. "_Again_ -"

_I'm glad you find this funny, Daniel._ Jack's venom drained away, though. _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice? _And now they had Winchesters running loose, with classified beyond classified information and no way to contain the possible outflow of information. _We're so screwed. _

Another piece of paper, with familiar script, lifted in the archaeologist's direction. With a puzzled frown, Daniel took it from Hammond's loose grip. A short moment later, blue eyes looked up again. "At least he's polite."

Jack was struggling for words past the anger tightening his throat and fists. "Sir?"

"They made it quite clear." Hammond took the letter back, sliding it into the top desk drawer. The General leant back in his seat, folding his hands over his stomach. Irony tinged every word. "Thanked us for being so understanding of the 'demands on their time'. Made a very convincing argument to prevent me from pressing formal charges against Major Davis. Even went so far as to detail how they took down the cameras and used the surface shaft to sneak out."

_To keep anyone else from doing it._ The thought hit him like a bullet. Not that it would keep the Winchesters out again, if they really had their minds set on it. But to keep anything in from getting out. _Hell._

"So, the odds are, they're long gone," Daniel realized.

"Yeah?" Thoughts of a moment ago Jack had dragging his temper back down to something approaching reason with ragged fingernails. But the memory of disappearing – _replaced_ – nondisclosure forms reappeared, and he nearly lost it again. "Gone where?!"

* * *

"Sir, I think I found something."

The cameras hadn't all been taken out by their recent 'guests'; just the ones monitoring all levels between the 'Gateroom and Norad, and all exterior surveillance. _More than enough._

"Good job, Sergeant," General Hammond's voice was calm.

O'Neill grunted.

Siler hit the rewind, pulling up footage from the 'Gateroom dated about three hours ago. Over his shoulder, Colonel O'Neill leant closer to the screen.

Cramped in a five-by-five room filled to overflowing with monitors, tables, wires, surveillance equipment, and two irritated superior officers was _not_ where he wanted to be. _Please. Unauthorized incoming wormhole. It happens all the time. I need one. Now. _

Typical of his just-average luck, the klaxons remained silent.

On the screen, Siler finally got a good look at the guys who had waltzed into the SGC and flipped everything on its ear. _Security systems most of all._ He could feel his blood pressure rising at the memory of the nightmare tangle of snipped, stripped, melted and fused wires that had managed to cut off or reroute all the security feeds and avoid every alarm.

_"Dude, check out the size of this friggin' thing." _

The taller one sidled up next to his brother, both blurry, backs to the camera. Through the microphone, his voice was slightly distorted, making each word a little harder to discern. _"Are you sure this'll work?"_

_"It won't hurt, that's for damn sure."_

"What?" O'Neill muttered at the exchange.

Siler kept watching, over-aware of the ominous silence of the officers at his back, eyes glued to the screen.

But nothing more was said; and the two figures climbed the ramp, working around to the backside of the 'Gate, blocked by the iris from the camera's view.

"Sergeant?"

Siler frowned, switching to alternate camera views – all of which, unsurprisingly, had been cut. "This was the only working feed at the time, sir. Out of all the ones "

In the corner of his eye, he saw the shifting of white and blue uniform as General Hammond stepped closer. "You're saying they left this one on purpose?"

_That or they missed one._ He was about to say so when the base's 2IC spoke.

"I'd bet on it." O'Neill leant forward, knuckles braced against what little tabletop was free from the covering weight of television monitors. "Fast forward."

Nothing, as the numbers in the bottom corner climbed higher; half an hour passed before there was a blur of motion onscreen.

"Hold it."

Siler had already hit the button, rewinding film that showed movement of two bodies reappearing in the 'Gateroom. He viewed in silence as the two men edged carefully around the curved sides of the naquada ring, slithering back onto the ramp and then clambering underneath.

"What the -"

But below the ramp also was just out of the camera's vantage angle; they only occasionally caught the bobbing of a head. Whatever they were up to now took more time, and they didn't give up any further words for the camera to remember.

As the timer clicked on, the two completed their job, repacked the duffle of supplies, and disappeared from the 'Gateroom.

"Is that it?"

At O'Neill's request, Siler sped through the remainder of film from when the security feeds have been down, but the two didn't get caught again on film. "Looks like it," was the only answer he could give.

In the half-light of the darkened room, Siler could see General Hammond's frown, although it was only barely illuminated by the glowing screens. Shoes clicked quietly against cement as the General exited the surveillance room, pausing in the open doorway. "Colonel. Take a team, and sweep the 'Gateroom. I want to know what they were up to."

For a moment, Siler only watched as concentration took over O'Neill's face. The officer turned to him, suddenly. "Can you make copies of this footage?"

"Yes, sir." Siler took a quick glance at the available equipment stuffed into the tiny room's cramped corners. _Probably have to use some tools from the Control Room._ He managed to pause the officer on his way out. "How many do you need?"

"Three." The door fell shut behind Colonel O'Neill, leaving only the memory of aggravation on his face and the echoes of muttered threats.

Siler let a long sigh ease from between his lips. _I wonder what they were doing._ On second thought, though, maybe he didn't really want to know. Either way, the SGC's grapevine would bring that to him soon enough.

_At least that's one mess I won't have to clean up._ Then again . . . _I hope._

* * *

Sam shifted in her seat, perched behind thick glass in the Control Room as Daniel and Jack passed through the blast doors into the 'Gateroom. Teal'c followed. _The Colonel said they were working under the ramp and behind the 'Gate? Doing what? _A few quick taps at her keyboard retracted the iris, letting the archaeologist step through the empty ring.

"They were back there somewhere, blocked by the iris from camera view." The Colonel himself was approaching the ramp, peering through metal grating at something large, black, and circular that she couldn't quite -

"Uh, I think I found it," Daniel called. The archaeologist was tugging something free of the back of the huge naquada ring.

The microphones were sensitive enough to pick up the Colonel's snort; Jack's boots _clang_ed against metal as he jogged toward the linguist. "They didn't spend almost half an hour duct-taping an envelope to the back of the 'Gate," he pointed out.

Teal'c had crouched beneath the ramp, reaching out to touch whatever was on the cement floor of the silo.

"There is a lot of duct tape," Daniel mused, but the way he was staring up, around the entire outside of the Stargate, told her he was thinking. "Hey, Sam? Close the iris, would you?"

"Sure," she sent back through the microphone, hitting the single button that sent the command into the computer. The trinium shield slid back into place.

"Oh, _damn._"

"Found it!" the archaeologist called brightly, blocked from view by the iris.

"As have I." Teal'c's voice drifted up from underneath the ramp.

_I have to see this._ Sam pushed her chair back from the control console, letting Sergeant Harriman take her place as she darted out to the 'Gateroom.

Rounding the 'Gate, dark lines met her gaze and her jaw dropped. _Circle, with a star inside?_ She didn't recognize any of the symbols scattered at random between the circle's circumference and outside the lines of the five-pointed star.

"It's a Devil's Trap," Daniel was scanning lines from the envelope he'd pulled from the 'Gate. Closer, Sam could see the print addressing the exterior. _Dr. Daniel Jackson._ "Sam says that demons – and Goa'uld – can't get through it."

"What good's it going to do on the inside of the iris?" Sam blurted.

Jack was running careful fingers over the freshly spray-painted marks, eyeing a nearby ladder with vengeful annoyance.

"Uhhh, I don't know," Daniel offered. Jumping from the ramp, the archaeologist made his way over to where Teal'c was carefully taking in the markings painted under metal grating, just about where all the teams paused to take a breath before and after passing through the event horizon. Sam could see the edge of this circle ended a bare two feet from where the wormhole established every time they fired up the 'Gate.

"Wait, Teal'c, don't get any closer."

The Jaffa stilled.

"What? Why?" Sam took a good look at the circle, reaching out a hand – _No,_ something whispered, tingling her spine and pricking every hair on her body to attention. _Don't._ Slowly, carefully, she withdrew.

"That's not a Devil's Trap," the archaeologist was scrambling over it without seeming to notice anything odd, placing his feet carefully around the fresh marks. "See the scorpion in the center? This is the Key of Solomon, apparently." Chestnut hair tilted, considering. "Those characters look like a cross between Aramaic and Hebrew. But some of these are occult symbols, I think. I'm not familiar with them."

Yet, at least. Knowing her tenacious friend, Daniel would be pulling up references within the hour.

The Colonel had circled now, was bent to peer underneath the ramp at them. "What does it do?"

"What does the letter say?" Sam chimed in, shoving down the unease in her gut. Teal'c had moved a good distance away from the circle, and was eyeing it with interest.

"It's another way to trap demons," Daniel read, crawling out from under the ramp to join them. "Apparently, it's more powerful than the Devil's Trap – should hold just about anything. And whatever gets trapped won't be able to get out unless the seal is broken. Sam listed a few ways – if the sigils are smudged, or the concrete beneath cracks. Apparently putting a board on top for someone to walk out won't work."

"So don't let anyone we don't want getting caught into it," the Colonel nodded. "I guess that includes you," he directed at Teal'c.

The Jaffa's face didn't change, but dark eyes flicked to the seal and back.

_I don't know how, but if it works – _"It'll be better than an MRI," Sam murmured. Caught Jack raising a brow at her. "Think about it, sir. As it stands, teams come from the 'Gate and then have to travel up seven levels to get to the Infirmary. Any Goa'uld could jump to a different host in that time." _Not without notice – but enough to cause major damage, especially if they yank knowledge of the SGC's lockdown procedures and layout from the hosts._

It was a problem they'd worried at before, without managing to find a real solution; they'd been lucky in that the situation hadn't come up. _Yet._

"This way, anyone who comes through the 'Gate will have to pass over the Key of Solomon first," Daniel nodded, blue eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "Like Thor's Hammer."

Sam realized that there was script lining the back of the paper as well, and Daniel had yet to flip it over. "What else does it say?"

The archaeologist juggled letter and envelope a minute, dodging trailing strands of sticky duct-tape from the latter, then frowned at the writing. "It's a postscript, from Dean. If we need to contact him, he's left a phone number with Major Davis. And then there's three letters and six numbers."

"Let me see," the Colonel ordered, tweaking the paper from Daniel's grasp. Brown eyes swept the page once, focusing in on the puzzle. "That's a post-office box, location and combination."

_Hmmm._ She recognized the military shorthand. Their father really had taught them everything he knew.

A growl caught her attention; Sam blinked. "Sir?"

The Colonel didn't answer, other than to shove the letter back at Daniel, storming out of the 'Gateroom before the rest of the team could respond. Curiosity clawed up her throat and spilled from her tongue. "What?"

Daniel shrugged, handing her the letter; Teal'c shifted to read over her shoulder.

_**Tell O'Neill to check behind the ventilation grate.**_

* * *

"Two unsigned nondisclosure forms, one Devil's Trap, one Key of Solomon, and one dead fish. Sir."

_What?_ "A dead fish, Colonel?" George kept his face straight, though humor was fighting to pull his mouth upwards into a smile.

"In my office," Jack ground out. The man's fists were clenching impotently, his previously-besieged expression having morphed into the glint of revenge. "In the ventilation duct. Which is superglued shut."

_Oh. I see._ George winced, then shot the younger man a sly smile. "I trust you've reeled in Sergeant Siler to deal with the problem?"

His 2IC shot him a pained look. "Yes, sir."

Rising from his chair, Hammond rounded his desk and headed toward the glass window overlooking the Stargate. "Good. It was Dr. Jackson's recommendation that we leave the seals where they are for the time being."

Footsteps behind him; the green-clad figure in the corner of his vision came to a halt beside him. "Sir?"

It really was amazing what time could do for perspective. _Major Davis' story helped on that account too. It's nice to have a character reference, at the very least._ And having those boys out from underfoot had eased his worry considerably. "They were very clear on their ability to deal with the shapeshifter that infiltrated this base, Colonel. The fact that they were able to get in and out of the SGC and NORAD speaks for itself."

Jack winced at that; Hammond nodded. There would be more drills in the immediate future, tighter security. _Much tighter._ No character reference in the world could ease the burn of worry ignited by the break-in. _If someone with good intentions found it so simple, it would be just as easy for someone with evil intentions to get in._

Hands hanging free at his sides, George let his sight unfocus as he delved into thought. Dealing with intergalactic war and politics, even he was guilty of neglecting closer threats; like that posed by terrorism. Usually they could count on NORAD to take over that concern for them, as buffer and shield, but that presumption had been neatly used against them in the last forty-eight hours.

George hardened his gaze, blinking the 'Gate back into focus. _But the Tok'ra won't wait for an answer to their demand – and there's no way Jacob won't inform the High Council of a new threat._ It was much better that the Winchesters had gone. "I can't ignore the effectiveness of the ritual they were performing on either General Carter or Selmac."

In brown eyes he read understanding. The threat of the Goa'uld was very real – and with the way the technology stood, those of Earth were at a galactic disadvantage.

_Also. _"I contacted the President regarding the Winchester brothers, and explained the situation."

True surprise pulled the word from the Colonel to his right. "What?"

_How to make him understand? _"We have sworn to protect the American people in any way possible," George said quietly. In the 'Gateroom below, he could see and hear the _thunk_ of encoding chevrons. _SG-7, heading out. _"I take my oaths seriously, Colonel. Even if that means accepting things that should be impossible." He kept his eyes pointedly on the Stargate. "And that means protecting our country from threats it doesn't even know exist."

_Like the Goa'uld, and the rest of the galaxy. Like – shapeshifters. _

And things he didn't want to think might exist.

"But, sir – poltergeists?" Incredulity stained O'Neill's tone.

Hammond felt his temper wind tighter, but it was nothing he hadn't argued with himself over for hours since Major Davis had revealed the full story of what had happened to him two years prior. _Furniture flying, electrical cords used to shock and strangle and stumble – knives and tools and heavy lamps battering at the bodies of innocents. Doors locking, to trap the unwary inside. _"Major Davis has never given us a reason to doubt his dedication to this facility, or his word," was all he said.

Hair more gray than brown was already shaking. "I know, sir. But still . . ."

"It doesn't matter what we think," Hammond said when the other man trailed into silence. "The fact remains that these threats exist. And right now, those two are our greatest allies in fighting them. I've made sure the President understands the situation."

"Bet the FBI wasn't too pleased with that," the Colonel muttered. But there was more amusement than annoyance in him now.

_Agent Henrickson certainly wasn't. _At least according to his contacts in the Bureau. But as long as the case was closed and _stayed_ that way, there wouldn't be a problem. "Neither were the Presidents of Stanford and MIT," Hammond retorted mildly. And they really hadn't been, but any man could be persuaded to see reason with the proper leverage. Mixed generously with a healthy dose of authority and a little bit of threat, of course.

Brown eyes were shocked for only a minute before the laughter broke free.

Watching SG-7 disappear into the event horizon, George Hammond smiled.

* * *

It should have surprised him, how quickly the rumble of the Impala's engine had returned to feeling like home after four years away, but it never had. Sunlight was welcome after a day of artificial lighting under tons of rock – Dean hadn't said anything, but he knew the strain of being closed in had worn on his brother. It was obvious in the way Dean had ignored cramping leg muscles –_ up a ladder, eleven levels, everything was cramping_ – and bounded down the mountain towards the road leading into the city.

Truth to tell, he'd been relieved to see the Impala himself. But this was getting ridiculous. "You done yet?" Sam inquired mildly.

The low crooning and patting of the steering wheel didn't stop. "Done what?" Dean was distracted from the conversation, fully involved in communing with the car. Again. _Or is that, 'still'?_

_It would be annoying if it wasn't so hilarious._ "Nothing," was his blithe response; Sam grinned out the passenger-side window at the sun shining off grass. "How far out are we, again?"

"Not far enough," Dean sobered, foot pressing the accelerator. "'Bout fifty miles, or so. I don't wanna stop until we've crossed the state line."

_Make that two state lines._ Sam wasn't keen on stopping, himself. True, the dead fish had been Dean's idea, but the superglue was his. "Think they'll leave the seals where we put them?"

The road was clear; it was early in the day still for traffic, and the only other vehicles on the highway had out-of-state plates or eighteen wheels, or both. Dean never tore his attention from the road for too long. "If they're smart."

"Maybe one day we'll get a chance to go back and see," Sam said absently, twisting for the books he'd dumped in the backseat three days ago.

"Hell no," his brother responded, green eyes flicking between the view out the windshield, Sam, and the rearview mirror. "Not unless the world is about to end."

_**Fin**_


End file.
